


soldier boy, tripping over himself to win my praise

by thissupposedcrime



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, canon until grand prix 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8814544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thissupposedcrime/pseuds/thissupposedcrime
Summary: Yuri cannot crater down the path Victor blazed, happily forsaking Russia and his career for an international love affair. Neither will Kazakhstan's favorite son. 
Or Yuri and Otabek from 2016-2026 and the competitions, weddings, and longing that define them. 
Summer, 2019
“Yuri, why are you photoshopping Victor into advertisements on male baldness?” Otabek’s voice croaks out from the bedroom’s doorway, rough from disuse at 3 AM.
“You’re the one who told me to control my temper by doing something relaxing,” Yuri replies, distracted as he edits a shine to Victor’s forehead.
Otabek is confident that somewhere in America, Leo de la Iglesia is frantically researching, “How to host an intervention when your friend is dating a jerk?”





	1. a million things I haven't done (2024)

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who latched on to Otabek Altin before he appeared and is now down for the count because he arrived.
> 
> Guess who thinks Yuri is going to spend years refusing to show weakness in front of Otabek Altin in a desperate attempt to remain a soldier. 
> 
> For the record, there's going to be no sexual content or contact in this story until they're both over twenty.
> 
> unbetaed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek Altin announces his impending retirement. A terrified Russian skating community prepares for Yuri Plistesky's reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the only chapter without a Hamilton based title-and god only knows that's gonna change eventually. 
> 
> Unbetaed.

**February 2024**

Dmitry admits he’s an idiot. Dare him to play in traffic during the mid-morning commute? He will dance among the cars, prima ballerina with skates thrown over his shoulder and careless grin slapped across his face. During the NHK trophy in 2023 he accidentally wound up in Osaka instead of Tokyo, distracted by the pretty view on the train. Once, he convinced himself he could out drink Mila Babicheva. Three months later, his liver still hasn't recovered from the poisoning. Dmitry will likely die before his next birthday, forever immortalized at eighteen.

But when he awakens to news that the unholy beast known as Otabek Altin has retired from skating, his deformed self-preservation instincts desperately rally. “ _Stay in bed. Never leave,_ ” they cry. Yuri Plisetsky is likely already at the rink.

Shit. Yuri Plisetsky is going to _react_. And look, Dmitry‘s a fool, not blind. He’s been forced into enough romantic movie marathons by his demonic older sisters to know what’s going on. Otabek Altin transforms their tiger to a kitten, soft voice and gentle eyes whenever their paths cross. Some of the older skaters present during Victor Nikiforov’s career and under Yakov’s tutelage when the whole “Flee Russia for Japan’s Pole Dancing Ace” debacle went down have spent years betting on who’ll abandon their homeland or if they’ll both flee to Canada together.

(Once, Dmitry thought to place money on Otabek appearing some cold winter morning and never leaving. Mila’s reaction when she overheard their rink mates’ discussion, lips pressed into a thin line and a soft, saddened exhale, stopped him. He does not approach her for clarification. Afterwards, Dmitry informed of Alexi of this development. Reliable Alexi, mature decision maker of his life, discretely hushed these conversations, the bet losing all amusement when there will be no happy ending to gossip over.)

But back to Dmitry’s current crisis, the end of his life. Jesus, Dmitry’s arrival to the ice rink could coincide with Yuri’s discovery of the news. Karma’s ensured his survival this long just so he can serve as the first sacrifice to Yuri’s impassioned rage.

Throwing himself down a flight of stairs is his safest option. Skating this season will end but that pain is preferable to whatever chaos Yuri’s broken heart creates. Yakov cannot force him to return to the rink if his limbs are broken. He is young; he will bounce back.

His mother finds him peering down the steps, questioning the plunge. Instead of accepting his decision and fate, she throws him back into his room, forces him to change into workout gear, and drags Dmitry by the scruff of his neck to her car, ranting that the pain of childbirth was no preparation for the pain his daily actions would invoke. The speech lasts the entire drive to the rink. He hears it often.

Dmitry, holding the door handle, tries to reason with her, but she shoves him out and speeds away. He hopes she remembers the paleness of his cheeks and his imploring tone while crying over his casket. The only son, dead at eighteen in a freak ice skating accident. Accident. Dmitry won’t even get justice! Fuck, Yuri is Yakov’s best shot at gold in the World Championships and his ex-wife’s favorite. Yakov will frame Dmitry’s murder as an unfortunate mistake while Lilia Baranovskaya laughs into her tea or whatever famous ballerinas do when their child gets away with a crime.

The doors of the rink host a baffling scene. Nearby the familiar echo of Yakov’s dulcet screams are shared with reporters, swarming around him with questions. Alexi lingers on the steps, awaiting Dmitry and holding out a styrofoam cup of black coffee. Dmitry wants to cry. Alexi is an obnoxious morning person who arrives early at the rink of his own volition, not requiring caffeine. Pyotr claims he once saw him drink a latte but no one believes him. If Alexi willingly entered a coffee shop for Dmitry’s sake in lieu of early practice time, the crisis _is_ real.

Did Plisetsky find out? Is someone dead? Where is Pyotr? He’s not small, can’t dodge for shit. He got concussed two years prior when Plisetsky chucked his phone across the rink the day of Otabek Altin’s motorcycle accident. Pyotr’s dead and they sent Alexi to tell him? Was Mila not available? She would at least let him mourn! Alexi will force him onto the rink as a coping mechanism and slash him with a skate it he becomes distracted.

Alexi throws the coffee into a nearby trash bin while Dmitry remains frozen in place, eyes darting between Yakov and his dearly departed drink. “If you go into a spiral where you think about death, caffeine enables more panic,” Alexi intones with the frustrated experience a decade together allows him. He wrinkles his nose and stiffly murmurs, “Also, you are a dick. I volunteered to take a break and prepare you, and this is how I am repaid.”

“Pyotr’s dead!” Dmitry mourns.

Simultaneously, Alexi announces, “Yuri Plisetsky left for Almaty last night.”

In the background, Yakov roars, “Yuri Plisetsky has not retired! Victor Nikiforov is a fool who cannot speak on this matter!”

Alexi, sensing his confusion, adds, “Victor Nikiforov posted a picture to Instagram of a plane and captioned it with a speech about following your heart, and Yuri taking after him. It derailed into a rambling love letter to his husband," he pauses with a confused grimace. "Also, Pyotr’s inside. Mila’s been throwing him in the air and crying about her baby growing up for nearly an hour.”

“WHAT!” Dmitry finally shrieks, louder than Alexi’s cool tone, Yakov, and the questions of reporters, all of whom turn to stare at him or, in Yakov’s case, melt the soul out of his body with the power of a glare.

Fuck Otabek Altin. Dmitry should have played hockey.

* * *

Yuri unlocks the apartment’s front door with a scowl, carefully dropping his bag on the floor, far away from the shoes lined up against the wall. As a kitten, Sasha liked climbing into their boots. Though she has long been unable to squeeze back into them, the ingrained memory of worrying about her persists. Aktos woofs from his crate in the living room. Otabek must be out for the day instead of a short trip if he’s not wandering the apartment freely. Normally they trust him not to destroy the furniture, but he’s recovering from surgery and older now, prone to accidents. They should be having conversations about what that implies, but Yuri always distracts Otabek when it comes up. The stupid dog will be fine. Aktos predates him, a furry welcome home present from the Altins celebrating their son’s return. Yuri’s spent the better half of a decade training him to loudly whine on command whenever JJ’s music blasts over the speaker, to mixed success and Otabek's chagrin. Dogs may be inferior to cats but he’ll cut anyone who doesn’t acknowledge Aktos is the best boy.

If he gets drunk enough, he should call Victor to discuss the transportation of animals to Russia. Someone will need to monitor Aktos and pet Sasha once he’s finished murdering Otabek.

Sasha winds herself around his ankles, and he cradles her against his chest while he lets Aktos out, tail beating a staccato rhythm upon seeing Yuri. “Oy! No jumping this time,” he protests at the wiggling white mutt. Resistance is futile. He drops to a crouch on the ground as the crate door swings open. Aktos must avoid resting so much weight on his hind legs. That's the only reason he's doing this.

“You two didn’t think to stop him?” Yuri growls as Aktos slobbers on his favorite sweatshirt and Sasha headbutts him. “Neither of you protested? You don’t deserve the treats I bought you.”

Yuri soon collapses under a heap of animal. “Traitors to Russia and Kazakhstan” he declares as forty kilograms of dog settles on his chest and licks him with fervor. Sasha moves out of his grasp to nuzzle his neck.

Eventually, Yuri waves them off, noting Aktos’s weight gain (a conversation to be shared with the idiot who keeps spoiling him with treats from the groomer). Somehow this disapproval prompts the dog to clamor for his food bowl, dismayed upon discovering it empty. He knocks over a set of pictures from the end table in his desperate attempt to attract Yuri’s attention.

“You know better than that!” Yuri rebukes, withholding an ear rub until Aktos sits at attention like trained. He considers texting Otabek and questioning how large a breakfast the animals received but can't bring himself to use the phone. Yuri will be damned before he gives warning that he’s arrived. He's pissed off and ready for the fight Otabek has dodged for two weeks, when this foolish idea was mentioned.

_"It's time, Yura."_

All of Yuri's calls are met with a dial tone or an answering machine, and his text messages largely go ignored. 

Yuri’s known Otabek was nearing the end of his career, was warned this press conference  _could_ be coming. Athletes flame out well before thirty in this sport, and Yuri has never been tricked by illusions of false hope. Although he healed nicely from the accident and a torn rotator cuff, Otabek hasn’t won a gold medal since last year’s Grand Prix, even in qualifying competitions, settling mainly for silver or an occasional bronze. Otabek dedicated his early life to skating, to the glory of victory, but he refuses to die on the ice. He’ll leave of his own volition, and Yuri is furious over this betrayal, for the years Otabek has stolen from him. From them.

Otabek may claim to the press, his family, his adoring fans, that he is unsure of his future path, but all roads remain in Kazakhstan, remain disconnected from Yuri. To his credit, Otabek would never pretend otherwise in the quiet of their bedrooms. Yuri still wants to kill him.

First he’s got to yell at their stupid dog for breaking picture frames.

* * *

Otabek returns home as twilight streaks across the sky, clearly expecting Yuri in the kitchen and Aktos roaming the apartment. Yuri considers it a personal insult that Otabek looks so put together for a death march. Those dark eyes are gorgeous because _it’s a day that ends in y_ and nothing in life is fair. His cheeks are chilled from the cold. His hair has been artfully disheveled by his helmet, which means the bastard is biking in winter, _again_ , despite both Yuri and his mother begging him to wait until there isn’t ice everywhere and this is how cars crash into you and fuck this stubborn bedrock of a man. Yuri loves him so much he could choke Otabek with it.

“You knew I was coming,” he accuses, turning away from Otabek and clicking his tongue at Aktos, wiggling under the table and staring pitifully at the stove. After cleaning and unpacking Yuri had inspected the kitchen, found it fully stocked with fresh ingredients for Yuri to use instead of the expected prepared meals and preservatives. For someone who spent years bouncing between countries and fending for himself, Otabek is an appallingly poor cook. It normally makes Yuri smile, at least when he isn't worried Otabek has been diagnosed with scurvy. Most of the family is at risk- Otabek’s father has set the kitchen on fire three times since Yuri met him, and Mama Altin had to be taught how to use the oven. He needs to gift them more cooking manuals.

“I did wait to hold a press conference until after the European Championship for that reason. Are you making pilaf?” Is Yuri livid about the unsurprising lack of denial or the fond tone in Otabek’s voice? He hasn’t yet decided which enrages him more.

“If you’re looking for dinner, try whatever scraps Aktos left,” he replies, prodding at the rice before it cements itself to the pan.

“You didn’t put radish in the dish.” Otabek states. Yuri refuses to turn around, but a familiar creaky sound means he’s leaning against the entryway of the kitchen.

“I’m not going to kill you with a _vegetable allergy_.” It’s offensive, the criticism Yuri faces in this damn kitchen.

“It wouldn’t kill me.”

_Wouldn’t kill him,_ fuck it. Yuri’s temper loses to the fierce need to scream at Otabek’s direction. He grabs a dishrag and tosses it. “The last time you accidentally swallowed radish we spent three hours at the hospital! It was two bites of a stew and you stopped breathing!”

Otabek catches the cloth and paces across the kitchen. “Ineffective hospital.” In the interest of full disclosure, Yuri spent the entirety of those three hours internally claiming the same, hand wrapped tightly around Beka’s and trying not to show his terror.

“Would you be laughing if the roles were reversed? If I was the one in the hospital bed?” To anyone else, Yuri question would sound sincere, an attempt to inflict pain to ease his own hurt. It is purely rhetorical here, sarcastic frustration. Annoyingly, Beka’s always prioritized Yuri’s safety and health over his own, starting in Barcelona as he chased Yuri down alleyways and shoved a leather jacket across his shoulders during cold walks back to the hotel. Seriously, no one in this family thinks for themselves. Between Otabek’s overprotective tendencies and his sister Ylena’s poor decision making, Yuri’s the only hope the Altins have in surviving for another generation. Grandpa must be rolling in his grave watching the waking nightmare Yuri is dealing with.

He’s distracted from his thoughts as one of Otabek’s arms sneaks across his waist. The other hand bats at the low ponytail ending at the top of his spine, pulls the elastic loose. “You promised to never wind up like me, remember? A fool who can’t even be trusted to drive down the road or eat alone?” Another frustrating aspect of Otabek is his memory. Sure, it spun Yuri back into his orbit but he also considers enraged, teary confessions to be precious memories, treasured and love worn because they’re so often recalled. Thank god Yuri never beat that persistent opposition to social media away. The #throwbackthursday posts would rival Victor for grandest examples of overshared embarrassing personal stories better left forgotten. Sometimes Yuri wonders how Katsuki processes the weight of that terrifying level of devotion. 

He feels a huff of breath against his neck and is aware of every single inch between their bodies. A faint apology is muttered against his skin. For a moment Yuri pretends he doesn’t have to start a screaming match over this retirement bullshit and sinks into a warm embrace, head resting against Otabek’s. The apology is for years of frustrated affection in hospital rooms, nothing more, nothing less.

“So are you going to feed me before we fight or…?” Beka asks, breaking the quiet. Yuri digs a finger between his ribs and debates whether he should grope around for a pan to smack him with. Aktos doesn’t deserve a full course human dinner so easily delivered to the floor. That is what stills his hand, not the warm palm on his hip or the nose rubbing against his neck.

“Why is the dog fat?”

“Is that how Yakov is teaching you to answer questions?”

“Beka, he’s gained at least five kilos since December.” The furry monster in question is frantically trying to insert himself between their legs and press closer to the stove. Yuri despairs of him and his owner. At least Sasha's quietly destroying a ball of yarn in the living room and not killing herself with it.

“He’s older now Yuri, and he can’t go for long runs anymore. We talked about this.” Otabek fondly pets down Aktos’s spine but dutifully nudges him away from the cooling meat on the counter.

“Dumb dog and dumber owner,” he responds, blinking away dust in his eyes. “He knocked down the end table near the couch again.” Between Aktos and Sasha’s penchant for nudging the lamp until it clatters onto the carpet, Yuri thinks they're being told to rearrange the furniture.

“I was wondering why there were ripped photographs in the trash.” Otabek detaches himself from Yuri with a final squeeze and sets the table. Starting tomorrow Yuri will stop feeding him like a concerned Russian grandmother.

“The glass shards tore them. Did you believe I destroyed them?” If this is an effective call for attention Yuri will consider it for future endeavors.

“You would never destroy a photograph of your grandfather or my parents.” That is fair, the only smart comment Otabek has managed since his foolhardy press conference yesterday. The picture of his grandfather and the two of them came from Yuri’s seventeenth birthday. Beka arrived in Russia with a snowstorm, stranding him there for two days. He gifted Yuri with a framed list of ways to say “Fuck off J.J.” in thirteen languages and proceeded to teach him the pronunciations for all of them. It was the only birthday Yuri ever spent with both Beka and Grandpa, and he carries a copy of the photo of the three of them in his wallet, keeps a framed version in every home.

As for the Altins...they’ve been trying to adopt him since 2018. Most loving family dynamics don’t begin with parents meeting a prospective new child while his coach and two skaters tenaciously grip him, loudly begging him to not kill someone. He vaguely remembers trying to strangle an American competitor at Worlds for insulting Otabek. Yuri blacked out in rage at some point but Papa Altin likes to play the video from his cellphone whenever possible. They can never make out the colorful threats spewing from Yuri’s mouth, drowned out by Otabek’s frustrated demands for him to stop while Aslan Altin loudly cheered Yuri on. But from that day on he was family so he doesn’t need to spend his free time vandalizing their photos.

“Your father gave me permission to beat you if it would make me feel better,” Yuri says once they begin eating, “And stop feeding him under the table!” He can literally feel Aktos’s tail wagging against his leg.

Otabek swallows a mouthful of rice and carrots, staring at him across the table with a raised eyebrow. He sighs. “I’m not surprised. You are his favorite.” Next he yawns, a giant exhale that shakes his shoulders. He looks younger than twenty-five, the ghost of a boy from Barcelona, Moscow, California, and Tokyo who stayed up too late talking to Yuri despite competing the next morning

Yuri is so fucking weak for that boy and this man. He will never be able to look in a mirror again and feels every inch a failure as he offers, “Go take a shower. I’ll clean up and we can talk in the morning.”

Beka is an intelligent tactical strategist and hastily retreats. He presses a kiss against the crown of Yuri’s head and sluggishly moves towards the bathroom.

As the faint echo of the shower starting up reaches him, Yuri shakes a piece of meat off of his plate. Aktos woofs in victory while Yuri slams his arms on the table and screams into them.

Half an hour later he’ll pry Sasha away from the catnip, settle Aktos down, and crawl into bed with Otabek, who barely managed to pull sweatpants on before collapsing on top of the covers. The alarm clock reads 9:37, and Yuri feels impossibly old.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I spent the better part of a day googling Kazakhstan/Russian names, skating seasons, and customs for each country for the sake of authenticity? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> Did I foolishly spend my final week of classes plotting out a 30k opus about how Yuri and Otabek pine after each other for a decade and have a love affair without realizing it? Yes, yes I did. 
> 
> This chapter will be a bit atypical than most. The first section is more in line with the writing style. The latter half mentioning events like birthdays, the Altin family, Yuri's grandfather dying, are among the major plot points coming up. 
> 
> Scream with me about Yuri on Ice or prompt me at tumblr: thissupposedcrime


	2. match wits with someone at your level (2016)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri shamelessly sacrifices Yakov's happiness in his quest to teach Otabek the joys of social media.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words can’t express how touched and floored I am by your responses to my story. I offer this un betaed chronological nightmare to all of you, with love. You sustain me. I'm a bit behind in responding to comments but I'll get there!
> 
> Before anyone comes at me about Lilia, she’s the one holding Yuri’s curtain when he wants to be extra about his entrances, glares at Victor, and knows what he’s about to do before he does it. A running theme in this story is Yuri failing to realize he has blundered into an important relationship. She is one of them, imperfect but important.
> 
> Also #TeamOtabekWinsSilver
> 
> Finally...this story is going to be much longer than I intended, isn't it? Wrote this in an evening, unbetaed but with love. First version deleted middle and proofreading when it uploaded so apologies for minor errors I didn't spot.

**December, 2016**

_‘Explore Barcelona with me?’_

_‘They’ll notice you’re gone. The silver medal around your neck isn’t just a pretty collar. You’re important.’_ Yuri responds.

Hours ago, while Yuri watched JJ earn the bronze medal, less than two points ahead of his own fourth place finish, he disavowed God. Otabek’s silver was exciting, and Yuri allowed the miniscule softness his heart created in seeing Victor and Katsudon kiss atop the podium to live for a full five seconds. But losing to JJ for the third time this season, fuck. He should have drowned himself in the shower when given the opportunity. Lilia stopped him though. She demanded he finish rinsing and prepare for the celebrations, somehow psychically aware he was considering death. Her ability to determine his moods freaks him out, especially since they’ve only been together for months. Seriously, she excels at ordering him around when he doesn’t know what he’s doing and demands he act polite before he’s even rude! Not even Yakov can read him with such nuance or nuisance. Maybe he’ll miss it once they go back to Russia and she throws him out of her house.

Lilia’s an annoyance now though. He’s wearing a suit, his hair is combed, and _they’re_ the ones keeping him waiting. Charitably, Yuri attributes the delay to Yakov, likely flustered at the prospect of sharing the banquet hall with Lilia and Victor, lost without the protective barrier of an ice rink.

The blinking red dot announces another text message from Otabek. It forces Yuri to reconsider his doubts about a higher power and simultaneously annoys the hell out of him. Is this what friendship feels like?

 ' _You’re important too. Skip.’_

He ignores the comment about his importance; it isn’t worth the fight. ‘ _If I stay away, they’ll be pulling pieces of me from the bay for weeks. Lilia didn’t teach me to ‘handle defeat so gracelessly.’_ ’

Lilia is only half the problem. Yakov would rather sever his jugular with a skate than admit it, but he’s incredibly anxious for the banquet and a reunion with that dead asshole. Briefly, Yuri debates the pros and cons of explaining to Otabek Yakov’s odd devotion to Victor, even when infuriated and screaming at the presses about him. Hell if he fully understands what’s between them, though. While Yuri happily joins Yakov’s bitter spells against Victor, he tries to deafen himself with music whenever Yakov gets nostalgic. Luckily Lilia doesn’t allow those moods often.

The greatest joy of Yuri’s life was discovering Lilia considered Victor unsuitable to her tastes and subsequently refused to train him. It explains the odd grimace on Victor’s face when he encountered Lilia in Russia and his haste to flee back to his boyfriend. Damn, now he really doesn’t want to leave Lilia. Maybe she can coordinate a new program for the European Championships, where he’ll medal and avoid that asshole...

Yuri sends another text, a horrific realization now dawning. ‘ _DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE TONIGHT. I’LL GO TO JAIL FOR MURDERING JJ_.’ They’ve only been friends a few days. Can Yuri threaten to never forgive Otabek and have it mean something yet?

‘ _I know. That’s why you should come with me._ ’

Lilia’s sharp, firm knock announces Yakov’s finally stopped being a baby. Yuri pockets his phone and plans battle strategies in his head. Lilia is the tougher target but if she’s on his side he’ll win. The door swings open before he can reach the door handle. Part of Yuri’s soul used to protest such gross attacks on his personal space and privacy. That part of his soul suffered a violent demise by Lilia’s hand by September. She looms in front of him, a fur wrapped around her slim, bony shoulders. Barcelona has not robbed her of the ability to cut an imposing figure, unlike Yakov, shuffling awkwardly into the room and closing the door behind them.

What the hell does Yakov have to complain about? He didn’t go to last year’s nightmare. He knows nothing of anguish. Wait. Yakov didn’t go to last year’s banquet!

 _Yes_. Yuri might actually enjoy his night now.

Warily, Yuri stares at Lilia, wonders if she’ll grab his face and haul him to a ballet studio as punishment for how shamelessly he’s about to act.

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Lilia calls, not even sparing him a glance as she consults a calendar on her phone, “You will be attending that banquet, regardless of your placement.”

Fucking hell. Witchcraft is real, and he’s owned by its physical personification.

Yuri plays his trump card, eyes wide as he waits for Lilia to finally acknowledge the victimized expression on his face. “Victor forced me to dance with strippers at the last Grand Prix Banquet.” Yakov’s hand clenches against his suit jacket, and he begins sputtering, but his coach’s shocked panic doesn’t deter Yuri from announcing, “Victor’s marrying the pole dancer he met there.”

Life as a professional athlete has done nothing to prepare him for the all-encompassing, deafening silence that settles over the room. Yakov gapes like a fish behind Lilia’s back. The vibration of a new text from Otabek is all that tethers him to this moment.

Yuri awaits the apocalypse, and Lilia does not disappoint.

It begins slowly, as Yuri suspects all ends of the world must. Lilia’s eyes are missiles, honing in on a target. They pass over Yakov, what Yuri knows is a brief reprieve, and settle on him. She raises a perfectly crafted eyebrow and states, “Elaborate.” That tone is used to command battalions in battle, begin great wars. It is not a question, but a demand. For the first time today, Yuri feels like a victor.

“Last year Victor and his boyfriend, the one who took off his clothes and dry humped Victor in front of everyone, dragged me into numerous dances. I protested, and people grabbed at me against my will,” Yuri keeps his tone as prim and proper as possible, lying through his perfect teeth. If they want a delicate prima ballerina, he’s gonna fucking give it to them, hours after his skates left the ice. He continues, “I was underage, and there are photos,” the bulk of which Yuri holds in his pocket, but that’s not the point of focus right now.

Yuri takes a breath and determines the best way to phrase the foundation of his argument. “Multiple competitors used a stripper pole and tossed off all clothing except underwear...well, not all of them wore underwear.”

Yakov groans and slams his palm against his face. That must be where Georgi and Victor get it from.

“Shall I continue about their nuptials?” he asks Lilia, desperately pinching himself behind his back in an attempt to fight back a smile.

“Yes,” Yakov sighs between clenched teeth. Yuri can almost feel whiplash from the speed of Lilia neck, turning away from him to glower at Yakov.

“The pole dancer is the current Grand Prix winner. He lost miserably last year,” Yuri confides in Lilia before continuing, relieved he still feels joy in discussing Sochi. “I wonder what he and Victor will do now, engaged, drunk, and celebratory. They strip in public a lot, even without a banquet honoring them.”

Yakov chokes again. Clearly Yakov’s struggle is with Victor’s marriage and the harsh reality Yuri faced two days prior. Victor isn’t coming back to them, or Russia, or the rinks. He’s going to be a fucking househusband or something stupid. Idly, he worries about the poor reporters who’ll next interview Yakov at the banquet. Does he call ahead and order them hearing aids? Then Yuri remembers reporters are assholes and decides to once again pour lighter fluid onto this hellscape.

He turns to Lilia, intelligent Lilia who was never fooled by Victor, saw a worthless waste of space while they were blind to his talents. She’ll appreciate his professionalism.

“Instead of seeing a strip show, I want to tour Barcelona with Otabek Altin. From what I can tell, he keeps his clothes on. He’s also my friend and honestly the only honorable or tolerable skater here.” Yuri will debate that last point with his dying breath, waving Instagram in the air for proof. JJ, two strippers, and the noisy photographer of sin await him at this banquet. Otabek is a prince and hero comparatively.

Loud noises halt his next point. Apparently Yakov has exited this conversation, like Yuri expected. Currently he’s fighting with Victor’s voice mail, an angry blend of Russian, English, and ‘father’. Again, Yuri avoids thinking about their relationship for this very reason. He and Lilia watch him sigh and redial the number to leave a new message, progressively more frustrated. From past experiences, Yuri guesses there will be three more calls until Yakov gives up or remembers Mila was also at the party and yells at her.

“So uh, can I go? Please?” Admittedly, Yuri predicted more groveling and a compelling conclusion, but there are at least five text message alerts pinging for his attention.

Lilia looks at him, looks through him, and he straightens his spine as she always instructs.

“Yakov,” her voice cracks the air like a whip, “We will attend the banquet long enough for you to congratulate Victor. Then, you are accompanying me to the ballet. Yuri, socialize with other skaters as you see fit. If you do anything foolish...” Lilia never finishes threats. She lets them linger in the air, allows the public to speak them for her. That is what inspires such terror. Sometimes, she is the Russian icon he aspires to mimic, not Victor.

“But Lilia!”

“Would you prefer we visit the banquet after the ballet? See another type of show?” Ice has never matched the dry chill housed in Lilia’s tone.

“No Lilia.”

As Yakov sheepishly walks out, Lilia pauses and says, “Enjoy yourself tonight Yura. Your efforts made us proud.” She doesn’t turn around, which is fortunate because Yuri feels himself gaping at her back.

* * *

Yuri allows Lilia, Yakov, and anyone else attending the banquet a head start, choosing to respond to Otabek’s text messages instead. Mila cannot be trusted not to lift him above her head and demand he come celebrate her second place victory, carrying him down to the party while he screams for help. Of course, he does not speak from personal trauma, and no one named Georgi can claim otherwise, especially when Yuri knows what Georgi looks like with makeup running down his teary face and has pictures to prove it. This situation never happened at any time prior in history.

_‘Dress casually.’_

_‘Do you want to eat?’_

_‘What are you in the mood for?’_

_‘Let me know when you’ve conned your coaches.’_

_‘I have faith in you standing firm on this matter.’_

_‘Text when you’re ready to leave.’_

Otabek texts like there was never any doubt Yuri would join him. All Yuri can do is smile and reply,

_‘Are we taking your bike or did you pay a fortune to park something that pretty in the garage?’_

He tugs off his tie and lets his suit drop to the floor, happily ignoring the Victor in his head decrying such treatment. Yakov and Lilia said to bring a dark suit, but it was stifling. Otabek replies as Yuri forces his head through his tiger sweater’s neckhole.

It’s a picture of the bike, and the corresponding text reads, ‘ _Are you coming or not?_ ’

Otabek Altin, Silver Medalist and Master of the Obvious.

 

* * *

Otabek clearly has a plan; the smirk on his face and refusal to tell Yuri where they’re driving are glowing neon lights proving it. If Yuri didn’t have a vested interest in surviving to 2017, he’d poke at Otabek’s ribs until informed of how they’ll spend the night. Yuri’s drained from the days of skating and prickly enough with people not named Otabek Altin that he should be sequestered away from large groups. Well, they could always start a fight with the locals and go viral during the stupid banquet, compete with whatever videos come from it. Sure Lilia and his Grandpa would flay him alive, but he’s petty enough to admit he wouldn’t mind death if it took from the celebration. Besides, it can be the start of Otabek’s increased social media presence; selfies with Yuri will help him branch out and fix his sparse Instagram. He’s already getting good at this friendship business.

“Do you expect me to carry you inside the restaurant?” Otabek asks, startling Yuri out of this thoughts. He was so distracted by dreams of trending online, with an audience not named _Yuri’s Angels,_ that he didn’t realize they parked or that his arms were still wrapped around Otabek.

Releasing Otabek, Yuri notes they’re in a parking center. How informative.

“Where are we eating?”

“Nothing fancy.”

“Is this payback for taking so long to text back?”

“Its payback for not telling me what you wanted to eat,” Otabek replies, tugging Yuri down a side street and tilting his phone so the map adjusts.

Mock offended, and guilty because he was too busy throwing apart his suitcase looking for this damn sweater, oddly ineffective in chilly weather but good looking on him, Yuri claims, “I sent ideas!”

“A list of emojis, not all of them food, is not an idea,” is the cool, dispassionate reply.

Otabek stops outside a restaurant. Yuri is vaguely confident that he won’t get food poisoning just by looking at the place, already an improvement from some of Mila’s favorite spots in Russia. A twinge of guilt rises, thinking of her at the party, finally risen from her third place ranking. It’s bullshit she wasn’t first. If he spots something shiny, he’ll buy it for her and hold onto it until she stops being a hag. 2045 is his generous estimate.

He and Otabek get shuffled to a quiet part of a half filled restaurant and split tapas and brochette. Yuri frequently steals bites from Otabek’s plate, who only fights back once Yuri gets too close to his roasted chicken dish. They make a noble effort at avoiding ice skating, Yuri bringing up his grandpa and Otabek his sister, but they end up discussing the pairs skating and juniors instead. There’s a few Russians Yakov has his eye on but Yuri doesn’t see much promise in boys older than him skating at the junior level. He doesn’t want to share this observation with Otabek, worried he’d feel insulted, or worse, disagree with Yuri. Next time Yuri will focus more on describing Russia, or Mila, or even Lilia in moments she’s not ruining his life.

“Oi! Otabek. Get ready so I can put this on Instagram,” Yuri calls once they’ve left the restaurant and found a gelato place two blocks over. Yuri grabs his cup with one hand and sets up the camera with the other, angling himself next to Otabek...who is walking out of the frame. The resulting picture would be hilarious to anyone else, Yuri staring aghast at a leather jacket clad blur on the left side of the screen.

Graceful dodging another attempt at a selfie, Otabek shrugs his shoulders and looks unimpressed as he states, “I never got the point in social media. The world already has enough of me.”

If he was older and more experienced, Yuri would hone in on the second sentence, have an adult conversation about publicity expectations or annoying confrontations with reporters.

Instead, he is young and indignant and rebukes, “You only found me from social media!” He cradles the phone to his chest, a protective tiger ready to fight for its cub.

Otabek laughs for a moment, gaze fond as he looks at Yuri. “Is that what you think?”

Yuri sneezes, suddenly cold. He shakes his head. “My fans were loud enough to track me down without a computer but they wouldn’t know to follow me otherwise.” Jesus, he doesn’t even like the loudmouthed girls, why does he need to defend them to everyone this competition?

“And if it wasn’t for social media, you wouldn’t be stalked at all.”

“You met me without social media and wanted to find me again,” Yuri retorts quickly, not thinking of the implications of calling his first friend a stalker.

Otabek runs a hand through his hair, still messy from the product from earlier in the day, the helmet, and the wind. “You’re worth hunting down.”

Yuri smiles, helpless and feeling strange. He doesn’t know what to do in this situation, unable to share how grateful Otabek’s tenacity and memory make him. His only offering is shutting down the Instagram app and opening the camera itself.

“Okay, just one for you and men then,” inching closer to Otabek slowly, in case he decides to dart a few feet away again. He feels the other skater settle down and place a hand to his back while they stand shoulder to shoulder and smirk. It’s a good picture. It’s a great picture, much better than Otabek’s current profile icon. He says as much to him, and hears a relenting sigh.

“Fine. Just this once. No more tonight.” Otabek frowns impassively, but his eyes are bright.

“Fine,” Yuri agrees. This does not include pictures they can take tomorrow morning before they separate to different planes and rinks.

Yuri Plisetsky is a master of resilience. Hurricane Victor’s years of drunken debacles and stressful shenanigans have made him stronger that mere mortals. Mila spent their adolescence clinging to him like a limpet only to transform him to an oversized ragdoll. It strengthened his bone marrow to steel. And Georgi...well, Yuri survived Georgi, a man who cries over the foreign films on flights and wears a life preserver around his neck, paranoid they’ll crash and die.

He will wear Otabek Altin’s hatred of social media down in no time.

Almost as if he’s hearing Yuri’s thoughts, Otabek questions aloud if he should delete his Instagram if it's so disappointing, ripping a fierce “No!” from Yuri’s lips as he frantically jumps for Otabek’s phone, needing reassurance the app is still downloaded.

An hour later, Yuri has another reason to frown. The newest picture on Instagram is Yuri, swallowed by Otabek’s jacket, frozen stiff because he prioritized fashion for warmth and considered himself too Russian to be impacted by winter breezes. Otabek can be seen smiling in the corner, only part of his face cut off.

It is possible Yuri has his work cut out for him and needs to start with step one, how to actually use a phone camera. They can graduate to filters over the summer.

The following day at breakfast, Yuri abandons his table with Yakov and Lilia, who are refusing to speak to each other and pass messages through him, and slinks across the hotel to Otabek’s side. No one thinks to look for him behind a hero’s broad shoulders, and for that, Yuri is grateful enough to let the social media dogs lie, at least until next time, when he can demand Otabek take a selfie with him on the podium.

Terror strikes him half an hour later as Lilia and Yakov prepare to leave for the airport. Mila and Victor circle like sharks, aware blood is timed to drop in the water. Yuri tries to quietly sneak out the front door but Mila screeches and lifts him up, stalling Yuri’s progression long enough for Victor to throw himself at Yuri and lament and lecture about his absence last night for fifteen minutes, nearly causing them to miss their flight because Yakov is useless in the face of Victor’s exuberance, and Lilia refuses to associate herself with their loud group, abandoning him for the waiting cab. Yuuri Katsuki is there and the one who detaches Victor from them. He mumbles ‘Congratulations’ in gratitude, which sets Victor and the entire proceedings off again.

Yuri hates Russian skaters.

Right before the flight departs and his phone is placed in airplane mode, he receives a picture message from Otabek. A well lit shot of Mila balancing him in the air while Victor’s mouth is doing that stupid heart shape it does for Katsuki, who looks devoted and relaxed, ring bright on his finger greets him.

“I finally figured out what’s Instagram worthy.”

Yuri smiles and thinks, “You’re on.”

* * *

**January 2017-Onward**

Otabek never does much with the pictures, coming to an uneasy truce with Yuri over the issue. Yuri can post occasional photos that aren’t too revealing, and Otabek will take more photos, and, at the very least, send them to Yuri. Somehow, Yuri becomes the social media, but he quickly grows accustomed to receiving pictures on a frequent basis.

Yuri spends years carefully collecting these images. He downloads them onto his phone, his laptop, permanently pressing them into the digital landscape like they’re dying flowers in between the pages of a book.

Otabek initially refuses to send him selfies. Instead, he’ll take snapshots of the most recent biography he’s reading, a receipt from the convenience store used in place of a bookmark. Sardonically, and because he’s clever and knows it, he types ‘Waste not, want not’. Of course Otabek will find a meaning behind even a scrap of paper. Fifteen year old Yuri does not appreciate this at the time, vocally protesting that ‘The camera faces two ways, Beka.’ or sending increasingly elaborate series of emojis that Otabek has to search the internet to dissect.

In a fit better suited for a seven year old, not a boy at the cusp of seventeen, Yuri will demand to see Otabek’s face. Otabek returns with a photo he took of a framed picture of he and Ylena at two and seven respectively, garbed in bulky winter jackets, eyes peeking out above their scarfs. Yuri should have known he was a goner from that moment, considering the scene adorable before forcing rage at Beka’s poor selfie game.

Gradually Yuri is placated with pictures of Otabek reacting with scenery. Many are taken from his bike, leaning over the handlebars as he captures snapshots of flowers, cats on terraces while he idles at lights. Otabek himself is hidden under the shade of a tree in Canada (which prompted a call and long interrogation to determine if Otabek had been in contact with JJ and in need of sterilization), or trying a new restaurant with cousins back home in Almaty. The lighting is always horrible, but it only takes Yuri half a year to realize Otabek is doing it on purpose because he’ll always give Yuri an inch and make him work for the mile.

After 2019 and the ‘most glorious family welcoming we’ve had in decades’, as dubbed by Otabek’s outlandish father, Yuri is privileged to embarrassing moments of Altin shaming.

Otabek sends pictures of Aslan frowning at a burnt dishrag and short videos of his screams when they first caught on fire; Otabek only forwards the Altin family patriarch’s ‘culinary masterpieces’ once the flames are extinguished or when Yuri is too tired to overreact, which, in Aslan and Yuri’s opinions, ruins the fun. His mother Raisa is represented in moments where her aloof facade has withered away, crying at Beka’s competitions or swearing as she slams an elbow against the wall, picture freezing her at mid-shout. Ylena’s gawky attempts to learn to skate while Otabek glides around her are followed up by her and her husband’s parenting failures. In return, and Otabek does not find out until photo albums worth of content have been sent to Yuri, the family rush to document Otabek falling off the couch because Aktos forgot he wasn’t a puppy, or awkward poses of Otabek passed out (which, again, years later Yuri will return to them in full). His favorite pictures are physical, copies of Otabek at four, toddling on skates, or multiple examples of Ylena and a trio of female cousins bullying their baby, _baby_ brothers to play dress-up like dolls.

On a warm summer day in Kazakhstan, Yuri, then twenty-one, will find out Mila has sent a mix of threatening messages and embarrassing photos to Otabek in his honor since early 2017. Victor cheerfully tells everyone who’ll listen that he and Yuuri could hear his screams in Japan.

He sends enough pictures of Aktos that Yuri has no excuse for his dismayed shock upon discovering the Altin family are _dog people_. Yuri doesn’t realize this until months later, but one of Otabek’s rare uploads to Instagram is Yuri petting the white fluffball, captioned #bestboys. He’ll be nineteen and scared of his feelings, and doesn’t mention the post until he’s in his mid-twenties, Aktos dead long enough that it feels like a soft bruise, not a bleeding cut, but still beloved, missed.

Tragically, Victor finds a way to ruin Yuri’s life even on a different continent and teaches Otabek about dog shaming, which he liberally applied to Sasha, the _cat_. One image critiquing her for knocking a lamp over caught Aktos chewing a pillow in the background. Yuri sent back an old selfie from the disastrous half-year Otabek tried growing his hair out again, captioning it, “Dumb dog dad too distracted by cat to notice future destroyed in the background.” He considers posting it on his Instagram, but the memory is for them. Eventually, Yuri realizes some things are better left private, like stolen kisses across his skin or the graceful slope of Otabek’s tan shoulders as the morning lights spills across them.

But these are all eventualities for a boy unaware of how much he needs to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three years from 2016 Yuri still lives with Lilia. Although Yuri views apartments every summer, he and Lilia veto each one for increasingly absurd reasons. Eventually Otabek takes pity on him and points out parents never approve of their kids leaving and that yes, Yuri, she adopted you, you’re in her will, now please move into the place two blocks away that you actually liked? 
> 
> A certain someone should have sketched out the narrative timeline more thoroughly before she hastily posted chapters. I scheduled Otabek’s accident later than expected so now Yuri’s grandpa must die sooner. But we’ll get to that in 2020. 
> 
> I looked up social media in Russia and Kazakhstan and then didn’t bother naming anything specific. The main goal was to emphasize that Otabek struggles with both technology and using words to socialize (because he doesn’t like to do that-protect him!) so I prioritized a visual medium. Instagram works well (and is canon) but I also wanted a private sector just for him and Yuri.
> 
> I didn't intend on uploading a new chapter so soon but I wrote this in one go. Next chapter will be late next week or, at the very least, AFTER I MEET OTABEK MORE. This chapter was also supposed to be the entirety of 2017 and go back to 2014 but that didn't happen.
> 
> Finally, feel free to say hi, scream with me, or talk about this on my tumblr: [http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/](url)


	3. what i wish i'd known when i was young and dreamed of glory (2024, early 2017)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were bright spots, once, before the weddings and the slammed doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love and identify with Otabek Altin so much??? I too demanded my best friend be my best friend, awkwardly handle success and praise, and am needlessly dramatic. There was this plot point I threw away because I thought it OOC for Otabek but now??? OH BOY! (Ending scene of this chapter).
> 
> If Yuri on Ice doesn’t end in Yuuri K’s victory, retirement, and wedding, what was the point of all this??? I tried to stick to canon, god help me, I did.
> 
> Hamilton title. Also unbetaed. With love to all the kudos and comments. Also, I edited earlier chapters!
> 
> Someone asked for a timeline of the fic so here it is, updated after every chapter: [http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/post/154659055298/timeline-for-soldier-boy-minor-spoilers/](url)

**(February, 2024, Russia)**

Dmitry awakens to sunny weather the day after Yuri Plisetsky fled Russia to do _something_.

Somehow, he survived Otabek Altin’s attempt to murder them all yesterday. The blatant disregard and disrespect for his life from all corners of it, himself, his mother, his friends, his coach, the neighbor’s dog that growled at him, is insulting.

Yakov was...moody during the last practice, and not just because someone surprised Mila so Pyotr went crashing to the ground again. Alexi wanted to check him for a concussion but Dmitry spoke for the entire group by stating no one believed he ever fully recovered from the last one, so why bother? Once Yakov sent them home, Alexi forced him to remain at the rink for an extra hour of practice. Why are the good punished so unjustly?

There’s no love in the world, Dmitry reflects as he, yet again, considers falling down the stairs. His mother is currently in the kitchen and cannot grab him from behind to halt his plan.

Well, that’s not fair. Yuri Plisetsky is allegedly having a heartbreaking crisis overseas and left to deal with it.

Romance isn’t dead, just languishing in Almaty.

Rumors have swirled since Yuri left and Victor, the bane of Yakov’s existence nearly a decade after retirement, inspired a swarm of reporters to storm their rink. Alexi texted earlier to warn him they had showed up _again_ because v-nikiforov uploaded numerous #otayuri and #oturi photos the night before. Each one somehow wound back to a devoted love story involving Yuuri Katsuki doing something adorable, so Dmitry doesn’t understand why the reporters are bothering. This is some weird perverse foreplay or family teasing that no one sane can comprehend. The reporters and Dmitry are not on their level. Together, they should celebrate that fact, not ruin beautiful ignorance.

The group chat Dmitry has with fellow skaters is currently debating four questions:

What is Yakov’s risk for a heart attack? Mila reassures them he’ll be fine, but she remains deaf to his sermons on avoiding the Japanese skaters, preached as a preventive measure against the legacy of Victor Nikiforov. Dmitry always thought it was just paranoia and a lingering resentment for his...son-in-law? Wow, this rink is insestuous. But Yakov was right to be concerned! Yuri was supposed to be the golden standard and now he’s done worse-he might retire in his _prime_! And for an aging competitor! Plus one of the junior skaters and Pyotr snapchatted Yakov with his face mottled red. That can’t be good for healthy hearts. Also, he is older than dirt. This could end his life.

If Vakov dies, do they inherit the assistant coaches or do they need to branch away to different rinks? A drunken pair skater named Geno went on an incoherent rant about how much he loves them all due to the topic shift. Alexi later texted to ask if they had ever met Geno before. Dmitry doesn’t know; he was trying to drink himself dead during this point in the conversation. He privately wishes luck to whatever potential coaching staff suggests he and Alexi separate.

What is Plisetsky going to do next? They have a few theories, each more terrifying than the last. If Yuri never comes back, Yakov, in grief, might kill someone. Dmitry raised a far more chilling concern: Yuri Plisetsky isn’t Yakov’s golden boy but Lilia Baranovskaya’s. Would she drag Yuri back home before he could ruin his career, even if she had to murder half the skaters in Russia and Kazakhstan to complete her mission? Yes. EVEN MORE UPSETTING IS HOW NO ONE WOULD SAVE DMITRY FROM THIS FATE. Natasha, a girl groomed to be Mila’s successor, asked what would happen if Yuri failed and came home? The gates of hell would open Natasha, get with the program, Dmitry figured this out before he knew Plisetsky was in Almaty. Maybe he should write a will. Is there a point in bequeathing anything to Alexi? Alexi will die with him, he thinks.

How should Dmitry injure himself? Natasha doesn’t think the stairs will work but Pyotr, who Dmitri is now convinced has a concussion considering his grammar mistakes and the mentioned pain from staring at bright screens, favors the stairs but recommends going legs first. Possibly he should wear a helmet; this is a wise suggestion from Pyotr. Geno types _booze_ and doesn’t respond afterwards.

Faintly, Dmitry hears a male voice in the house as he refreshes the group chat one more time. Mom must be watching one of her shows, which means he has been forgotten about. Good.

“Vershinin Dmitry Ruslanovich!” Alexi awaits him at the bottom of the stairs, a rigid and terrifying 5’10 figure promising to murder him and revive him solely so his mother can murder him as well. There’s a scarf wrapped around his neck that might be Dmitry’s but Alexi marched across town from the rink, so Dmitry bites his tongue.

Distantly, as Dmitry unlocks his knees and slowly walks to his doom, he hopes Yuri Plisetsky regrets ruining their lives like this.

* * *

 

**(February 2024, Almaty)**

Yuri Plisetsky awakens to a full bed. This is normally the desired result, but his bedfellows are a cat sleeping on his head and an overexcited dog ready to be loved, now.

Otabek Altin is nowhere to be found and Yuri realizes, with genuinely clarity, that today is the day he murders the love of his life. 

* * *

 **(2017: The Year from Hell, as Proclaimed by the Victimized, Traumatized Yuri Plisetsky, Who** **_Did Not Ask For This_** **. At All. Not Once.)**

**(The Few Good Parts)**

In January, Yuri arrives back in St. Petersburg after wheedling a four day break from Yakov, snuck in between Yuri’s victory in the Russian Championships and the beginning of his preparation for the European Figure Skating Championships. Moscow was wonderful, his time spent basking in Grandpa’s affection and cooking. He did nothing but celebrate Yuri’s performance in the Grand Prix with anyone who’d listen, and many who would not. Yuri lapped the praise up, lacking embarrassment or horror.  Once, he tried for humility and bashfulness about this pride in his text messages to Otabek. Otabek’s unimpressed selfie in response, a rare blessing, silenced his false modesty.

That’s another thing that happened in January: he and Otabek kept talking, about everything, about nothing. Considering his lack of context, Yuri forgave Otabek over the kindness and support he offered the world’s loudest couple during the Grand Prix. Apparently Otabek’s father is an earnest combination of Victor’s flair for the dramatics, Kazakhstani pride, and boisterous sensationalism. Keenly, Yuri sympathizes and understands. His father seemed especially delighted about Yuri’s rescue, and Yuri unhappily responded with the grief Victor, Grandpa (until told how wonderful Otabek was) and even fucking Georgi were sharing. He deleted Georgi’s number and blocked Victor on Instagram for the remainder of the holiday. Finally, Yuri was granted peace. Even Mila only sent texts of gossip about their fellow skaters or pictures of her sister’s cat.

She wears the silver choker he bought her in Barcelona in her updated profile picture so Yuri knows he won’t face repercussions for skipping out on her banquet.

Upon returning to Yakov, Yuri is pleased to discover Lilia is not kicking him out of the house. She seems affronted by the idea. Suspiciously, she stares Yakov down, likely remembering the last time the three of them were together and how Yuri brought up strippers Yakov worked with. Yuri does not want to be involved, so he shuts up and flees to his room.

A trend begins to unfold.

He’ll perform ballet with Lilia, showered with criticism only she can offer, a sharp sword digging into whatever fleshy body part is sloppy, out of place. Even if he has to kill a new version of himself every day, he will succeed. They both realize this. It is why Yuri has a room in her home, why she would have let him leave the banquet early, even without the scandal he reported to her. There is more than pride and necessity between them now. She drags him to salons when his hair grows uneven, though he remains indifferent, just shoves it into a tighter ponytail, because she cares about his art, even when he forgets to. The memory of her tears of pride and joy are not forgotten easily, and he carries them like a mark, like the lingering touch of Yakov hoisting him into the air.

Mila joyfully launches him over her shoulder, grabs him by the hands. Together they spin in circles around the ice before practice begins. He only calls her a hag half the time, oddly content and settled in these moments. For weeks at a time she would stay with him after practice, mirroring hand movements and extensions of his leg. She is the one who blackmailed Georgi to stay away and then return, and Georgi, to his credit, helped immensely in presentation once allowed.

Yakov continues to challenge him, is firm and consistent. He is not a mountain for Yuri to throw himself against to become stronger. Mountains can wear away with time, pressured by the elements. Yakov is an institution, has chosen to prioritize Yuri, the second coming of his lost protegee but one who can exorcise the specter of Victor Nikiforov from the halls of the rink. He will.

Even the pig and his dead bastard fiancee are regular pains in his life.

“Oh, did you forget how to land a jump? Poor Yura.”

When not busy having sex across every surface they encounter, they call to make sure he’s still alive (Katsdon) or to critique his latest broadcast program (dead bastard). If Yakov’s eyes didn’t sparkle with uncharacteristic _longing-dismay-joy_ whenever Victor’s name was mentioned, Yuri would suspect his coach of ratting on his flaws to Victor. But those two still aren’t talking much...which means he gets interrogated by both of them about the other.

“And how is Yakov? Still suffering from the Grand Prix?”

“Thanks for that Yurio! Yakov refused to shake my hand.” Katsudon's groan doesn't seem heartfelt enough for Yuri to feel guilt. 

“He normally tires himself out during the winter. Has he been yelling at everyone less?”

“Fuck off, you’re the one who stripped, and you know he’s not actually our dad, right jackass?”

Days later, sensing the Victor on Yuri, questions come from Yakov about if he sounds _happy_ and Yuri wants to die.

Otabek answers his texts and slowly adopts the practice of photographing his life. They schedule blocks of time to skype among their rink efforts, different time zones, and baffling family engagements (Otabek’s problem in all instances). If those two assholes in Japan actually go through with the wedding (he’s honestly expecting them to elope in a fit of impatience or for Katsudon to realize how much better he can do and call it off) Yuri is not above begging Otabek to be his guest.

“I’m the child of divorce.”

“That’s nice” Otabek replies stoically. A dog barks on the other end of the phone, and Yuri feels a rush of pity for his friend, catless.

“Lilia told me to ignore them.” Yuri is fucking trying but any day now he’s going to be sent an invite to their wedding and a spare for Yakov. If Victor asks him to ask Vakov to call him because he’s an immature child, Yuri will refuse because he is the only one allowed to be a petty teen.

“Do you even want to go to this wedding?”

“...how was your day?” Yuri’s never been drunk but he’s gonna need alcohol to admit the truth. Otabek knows that and coaxes him to debate over the best bands instead.

In March he earns silver in the European Championships, Georgi on the other side of the podium with bronze, and the creepy Italian twin wins gold. Yuri’s glad he doesn’t usually talk to that guy, Jesus. Considering Georgi was crying in the locker room “Because I know love too happily to remember the heartbreak!” after the short program it is a pleasant surprise to see him rally so successfully in the free skate.

His success (and Lilia, disgusted by the scores the judges gave Crispino for presentation because his was _superior and undervalued_ ) forces Yakov to allow Yuri a brief respite to South Korea for the Four Continents.

Yuri posts a picture of his arrival to Instagram, and soon after his phone vibrates with an image of him standing in the busy airport, sent from Otabek’s phone. Her turns around and sees Otabek leaning against a wall near the baggage claim, and grins.

Yuri waves, grabs his bag, and walks over to Otabek. For an awkward second, Yuri isn’t sure how to proceed. Does they hug now or something else or nothing at all? Otabek ignores whatever his limbs are doing in their confusion to take the bag out of his hand. He gently nudges Yuri towards the exit. After a failed lunge for his bag, because he can carry it himself, he follows Otabek, discussing preparations for the competition tomorrow.

Otabek does not lead them to a garage or a temporary parking lot but rather a sidewalk. He checks his phone and explains,“The shuttle for the hotel will be returning in about ten minutes.”

“Huh?”

“Did you expect a motorcycle?” Otabek’s tone is level, but his raised eyebrow hints that he’s mocking Yuri.

Yes, actually. “I was given false expectations. We’ve never travelled without it,” Yuri replies, shrugging his shoulders. He’s not admitting to being disappointed, but he supposed it is impossible to rent a motorcycle or borrow one from a foreign friend in every city. 

“A shock after so many trips together.” Otabek sounds like he’s discussing the weather but Yuri’s watched his face enough over the past few months to know the truth. He’s mocking Yuri. How does no one realize how quick Otabek is off the ice?

“Jerk.” It comes out fond, and Otabek huffs a laugh.

They spend the rest of the day touring Gangneung. Otabek is magnanimous enough to not protest how brutally Yuri steals bites of his seafood, even after finishing his own dinner and smaller orders of food during the day. Beaches and sunrises are common here, Yuri notes as they walk near the shore. Unsurprisingly, Yuri is reminded of Victor outlined by the morning sun, ring blinding in Barcelona.

Victor Nikiforov is scum of the earth, a monster that oozed from the core of the planet and chilled on the ice, melting and recreating expectations for longer than Yuri’s been alive. Days go by and records are broken, but Yuri still questions if people see him or just the programs Victor created. Afterall, there is no Before Victor in this life, just an After, a light on the horizon he’s destined to chase until his own retirement. Even after that, Yuri’s likely going to spend his thirties cursed by Victor’s attention and embittered by broken promises. The cycle will continue until Yuri finally snaps and kills him or his fucking fiancee finally puts them all out of their misery.

But underneath his false ribs, guilt unspools in his stomach, released by the memory of Victor’s shaking fingers against his face and Katsuki’s neat handwriting on a wedding invitation threatening to drag him from Russia if he did not show up four days before the celebration.

Yuri wants to tug at Otabek and explain how he feels, talk it out or be told _what_ to feel. But he doesn’t know if Otabek wants to hear these concerns, especially if Yuri proves himself not a soldier over petty confessions still too tender to think about often.

Instead, he swallows and breaks the comfortable silence with a confident demand. “You’re coming to Japan with me for the wedding.”

“Hm. No.” Otabek’s gait doesn’t pause but he does look at Yuri in amusement.

Betrayal colors his tone, makes it whiny. Mila usually grabs his cheeks and squishes them between her hands when he acts this away, but she’s in Russia so Yuri doesn’t check over his shoulder to make sure he’s safe. Well, more than once. “You’re my friend. Consider it a birthday present! I need you.”

Confused, Otabek asks, “Did you not receive your gift yet?”

“Hell yeah I did! They’re awesome. Have you not seen my Instagrams?” Yuri is now the proud owner of leopard and tiger print skate guards. He normally doesn’t post artistic pictures of his skates (see half the damn skating community) but this is clearly a worthy exception. He’s already bookmarked a website to order biking gloves with the Kazakhstan flag printed at the wrist for October.

“So you want two gifts?” Yuri isn’t in a place to comment on Otabek failing to hid a smile into his scarf, but let the record show...

“Consider it making up for the fifteen years you missed.”

“We first met when I was twelve and you were ten.” Yuri still feels embarrassed for not remembering that and did not, under any circumstances, sulk to Mila that he shares Victor’s long term memory.

“I’m sorry?” Witnessing Georgi in relationships has taught him to apologize when unsure of the terrain in any conversation. Yuri considers Georgi an idiot, even in a good mood, but now sees the appeal.

“Don’t apologize. I wasn’t memorable then. Although,” and here he looks Yuri in the eye, “You’re not allowed to forget me now.”

A frown crosses Yuri’s face at the dismissal and he growls. “You were! And I won’t! Never!” He punches Otabek on the shoulder and wishes it made him feel better.

“Good. I’m still not going to the wedding.” Otabek’s smile is quicksilver but Yuri catches it before it slips away from his face.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t win gold,” Yuri offers. It is a fool’s bet. There’s no competition for Otabek here, JJ the only real threat, but is JJ ever a threat to Otabek? No, and Yuri will always care about him for that reason.

Otabek sighs, but seems pleased by Yuri’s faith. They let the matter drop for now, though Yuri can taste victory in the air. 

* * *

It is alarming how easily Yuri can trespass around the halls of the rink not accessible to the public. Otabek’s presence at his side likely explains that, but Yuri doubts half the officials realize he’s not competing despite the Russian jacket he’s wearing. Truly, Yuri almost wishes he stood at the ice during Otabek’s skate instead of their reserved seats in the stands just to see if he could get away with it with minimal fuss.

So far the men’s free skating programs have proven to be an eclectic mix of Otabek, people Yuri vaguely remembers but does not actively hate (Katsudon’s friend and Seung Gil Lee), ones he’s glad not to know because _damn_ (the Chinese and American skaters following Chulanont around with cameras at the ready), fucking JJ, and everyone else. Pointedly, Yuri refuses to acknowledge anyone is skating for Japan because the only one deserving of it is gone.

A blonde American named Alex Hale winks at Otabek as they walk by. He’s currently fifth in the standings.

“Do you know him?” Otabek asks.

“No, why? Don’t you?”

“No. He winked at you.”

“No he didn’t. That was for you. Why the hell would he wink at me?”

It is during this distraction that a scream of ‘JJ Style’ pierces Yuri’s eardrums. God damn it.

JJ struts, _he fucking struts, Yuri is so done_ , over to them. But his eyes gloss over Yuri and focus only on Otabek. Immediately, relief and a bristling need to hustle Otabek away rise to the surface. He’s not competing, and he knows where to hit for bone to break. Carefully avoiding such areas is why Katsuki and the physical representation of poor taste are uninjured. JJ? JJ can die.

“Otabek!” He calls joyfully, whipping out a phone in one hand and throwing an arm around Otabek as the flash goes off.

Yuri texts Mila, with shaking hands, and types ‘am about to cause international incident. might be banned for rest of season. prevent yakov from checking news’

Preoccupied with blinking the lights out of his eyes, Otabek is slow to shake JJ off. Yuri makes the tactical decision to do it for him, shoving between the two and placing himself next to Otabek. Oh yeah, Otabek is going with him to Victor’s wedding.

“You wanted a commemorative photo with the winner?” Yuri asks snidely, glowering at JJ with ease. Years with Victor Nikiforov have prepared him well.

JJ seems unshaken and bends at the knee, shrinking to Yuri’s height. “Kitten! Didn’t see you there! Have you missed me?” In the background, Yuri notices the girlfriend laughing and wants to kill them both. He rears his head back and prepares to slam it into JJ’s nose but Otabek’s arm wraps around his neck like a collar, yanking him back, keeping Yuri in place.

“Shame you can’t compete. It’s always fun to see you on the podium.” With this, JJ’s smile turns contemplative. “Nothing is as disappointing as Katsuki staying away though. Talk about a waste of talent. He’s the only one to give me a challenging rematch.”

Two events happen within milliseconds of each other.

First, Yuri is settled by inner peace. There is no need to text Mila about bail money. In his soul, he truly understands he was put on this earth not to skate, but to fuck JJ up at the Four Continents, 2017. He takes a shallow breath and wiggles an elbow, preparing to (apologetically) slam it into Otabek’s stomach until his hold on Yuri loosens. He’s gotta fuck him up, he’s gotta. Maybe if he explains the event to the idiot couple he won’t need to find a wedding present.

The second?

“You’re getting one,” a growl rumbles. Yuri freezes. JJ steps back, grimacing with fearful eyes. The girlfriend squeaks. From his position under Otabek’s restraining arm, Yuri can’t see his expression, but he would sacrifice all of his junior level gold medals to memorialize the scene on camera.

No one says anything after that for at least ten seconds, but eventually JJ gamely tries to recover, the girlfriend running to cling supportively to his arm. “Calm down Otabek! I’m sure you’ll be standing next to me on the podium. Your talent is obviously in use.”

Yuri hisses and swears on every cat ever born that he will leave this friendship if Otabek doesn’t place higher than JJ. Otabek’s arm loosens around his neck but a palm grips tightly at his shoulder, so Yuri stays in place, ready to lunge at a moment’s notice.

“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the years. We should try to be friends,” JJ continues.

“The only relationship we want with you are murderers and victim!” Yuri roars, the human manifest of teenage fury. Everyone blanches, but Otabek’s grip is looser, a rub to his shoulder where his fingers dug into his skin. It is comforting.

Apparently, Otabek’s frown (or whatever his face is doing) remains unchanging, so JJ and Isabelle walk away after a quick goodbye.

Yuri sighs and allows himself to be pulled away from the rink by Otabek, whose face has adopted its typical passive poker face.

Hours later, after dinner, they discover Alex Hale livetweeted the confrontation with #shook #couplefights #yourbaecouldnever. Katsuki’s best friend uploaded video coverage to Instagram so they all go viral, including Seung Gil Lee, caught laughing in the background. Yay.

There are a dozen missed calls from Victor, Yakov, Mila, and even Katsudon. Otabek groans as he looks at his phone, but Yuri doesn’t care. Otabek’s face promised a cataclysm. It was glorious. Life changing. There is magic in the world, held in Otabek’s fingertips as he can easily brush JJ away. Is this what swooning is supposed to feel like?

Otabek flicks his nose when he asks.

The following day, Otabek takes gold, JJ a very close second, and Phichit Chulanont bronze. He notes, with satisfaction, Hale remained in fifth.

More importantly, Yuri isn’t going to the wedding alone.

Life is good.

Later, Yuri will reflect the Four Continents as the end of all joy in 2017.

* * *

  **(2020-2026)**

Over the years, they excel at skating, collecting medals with the greed and determination of a school child spotting a shiny coin on the sidewalk, unable to walk away without gathering it. Skating comes naturally, and medals are shiny circles bright in their eyes. This, they can freely admit, though neither is foolish enough to call their work effortless. They break bones, strain muscles, cry in dark corners of rinks. This too they can announce with ease.

Yuri brags about the perogies he makes, the empty plates once filled with food and greedily consumed. Otabek allows Yuri to document the entire process of adopting and raising Sasha to Instagram, the transformation from shaking kitten, malnourished and dwarfed in Otabek’s palm, rescued from a cluttered alleyway near the apartment, to sleek domestic predator, champion against the evil basket of yarn Otabek’s mother gave them. Though dragging Otabek in front of cameras is more painful than pulling teeth, he has become better at sharing parts of his life with the media and fans. Before Yuri gifts his parents with cookbooks, he’ll rip out pages of recipes requiring foods Otabek is allergic to, grumbling loudly the entire time. Otabek Instagrams this scene.

Alone with each other, they share certain facts and secrets freely. Otabek refuses to step foot in a ballet studio. As expected, Lilia is remarkably unimpressed. Only Yuri knows the truth, and he’s gentler after that reveal, distracts before criticism against Otabek’s lack of flexibility starts. Frustrated, Yuri eventually accepts he is a terrible driver, though Otabek _kindly_ points out no one Yuri knows in Russia is good behind the wheel. When it is quiet and neither can sleep, they’ll exchange misadventures from their international travels. Yuri tries to cling onto the initial disgust he felt for Yuuri Katsuki, long melted to grudging fondness that often extends to Victor. Unfailingly, Otabek hums supportively and rolls his eyes. They went to their wedding. Yuri’s hand shook in an attempt to not cry. He failed. Phichit Chulanot has numerous videos of Otabek’s back to the camera, a protective screen blocking the view so Yuri’s red, puffy eyes went undocumented. If Yuri needs an outlet for his stress, Otabek speaks fondly of Canada. Fireworks pale in comparison to the fury and lighting of a provoked Yuri. They both sleep well those nights.

Mila chirps “shows on face” whenever Yuri stares longingly as Otabek skates. Kazakhstan skating staff smile watching the two of them interact. Silently, they can converse. Ice, not Russian, is their best language. Movement and gestures create the foundation of their worlds.

They _can_ converse, and converse well. Their communication errors stem from what they refuse to discuss, not their methods or a lack of it entirely. See, as Yuri points out to Victor and Yuuri during his tenure as their student, he did learn something from them after all. What not to dos are valuable lessons indeed. Victor is affronted and wakes him up an hour early for practice for a full week after that comment, but Yuri can’t find it in himself to regret what he said. Yuuri gives him an extra serving of katsudon for his trouble. Yuri knows where his loyalties lie.

In hindsight, Otabek identifies 2020 as the beginning of these talking troubles, but Yuri violently disagrees. Enraged Yuri does not care about the neighbors, slamming the door with such ferocity that frames on the wall shake. A startled Sasha flees into the bedroom while Aktos anxiously whines. Before he walks out, Yuri condemns, “You can’t keep expecting me to read your mind.” It is 2022, and Otabek knows _nothing_.

Well, Otabek knows one thing. Before 2020, there was no velvet box hiding in the bottom drawer of his desk, carefully covered by tax documents, ring inside already rejected and left to collect dust. He doesn’t want Yuri to see it again. He doesn’t want to remember that night either.

By 2026, the box is gone, and Otabek is silent.

* * *

**(2017: The Year from Hell, as Proclaimed by the Victimized, Traumatized Yuri Plisetsky, Who Did Not Ask For This. At All. Not Once.)**

**(Everything Else)**

Life sucker punches Yuri in early April. He awakens to a daily hell. The sheets are sticky, his hormones are raging, and his growth spurts hurt like a bitch. Each day is a new way in creatively falling apart on the ice. Even worse, Yuuri Katsuki still intends to marry Victor Nikiforov.

Seven years later, he'll be sulking in Almaty as Otabek's father tries to poison them with his latest attempt at cooking. 

Regardless of the time, Mila won't stop calling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept changing the order of scenes in this chapter and what it should contain. Originally the goal was all of 2017 but I'm getting stressed about what revelations are coming on Wednesday. I wanted to hold off on Yuri at the Victuuri wedding until then. (Am I documenting every scene that implies Yuri had a crush on Yuuri? No...)
> 
> JJ gives me feelings for a few reasons. I think he genuinely wants to be friends with skaters like Otabek but Yuri has called dibs and will attack aggressively, even obnoxiously. In the pre-Otabek days, I had an idea and rough outline for a fic of 10 viral videos JJ and Yuri star in but I'm just transporting the best parts to this fic. 
> 
> For what it’s worth, I know Kazakstan typically does earrings for engagements but when we get to 2020 a lovestruck Otabek is going to pause, not because his intended is nineteen, but because he has long hair and no piercing so ring it is. Also, I’m not going to disrespect anyone by attempting a wedding in a culture I am not a member of. Research isn’t that thorough. 
> 
> Pretty sure 250+ of the hits on this story are me trying to upload, edit, and respond to comments. I’ve never done a chaptered fic before and I keep goofing on what to do. Oh well. 
> 
> Someone scream about the last episodes with me at tumblr: [http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/](url)


	4. seeing your strategy play out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2017, Otabek Altin asks a series of skaters how they say "Fuck Off JJ" for Yuri's sake.  
> In 2024, Yuri asks Otabek's father where the hell they went wrong because their son/boyfriend is an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to Otabek Altin, a prince among men and who, in unrelated news, was my answer in a “Which YOI Character Are You?” quiz. Multiple times. And also to all you reading this because HOW ARE THERE SO MANY OF YOU??? I love you all. 
> 
> I've been struggling with the next chapter in Yuri’s POV since my last posting (and coming to terms with the ending I guess). But this wanted to be written instead of the planned chapter. My apologies for any confusion. Hope you like my attempt at putting Otabek into a greater community.
> 
> Unbetaed as always.
> 
> Also I will never forgive JJ for winning bronze instead of Otabek. Sorry, just needed to say that.

**Interlude (Otabek Spring 2017-Spring 2018)**

After Yuri’s truculent reaction to JJ at Four Continents and shocking performance at Worlds, Otabek is inspired for his next birthday present, a framed list of ways to say “Fuck Off, JJ” in thirteen languages. Not all languages translate swear words conventionally, but he’ll find the closest insults and work from there.

It is embarrassing, how proud he is of this idea.

These are the irrefutable facts: Otabek understands the appeal of social media despite his disinterest, appreciates how it enables contact with his far-flung support system, and likes the shine of Yuri’s smile whenever his posts trend.

_(He also likes the thrill of victory pulsing through his veins when the Barcelona and international media brand Yuri as his to rescue but no one needs to know that.)_

An easy observation: Katsuki and his husband force Yuri to run the gamut of emotions. He’ll muffle tears against Otabek’s chest at their wedding and dedicated countless nights to ranting to them and about them. But, at the end of the day, they are devoted to Yuri, and he would wage war in their defense, as long as they aren’t around to witness it. That passion is why Otabek keeps a constant watch over Yuri at banquets where people reflect on Nikiforov’s lost legacy, Katsuki’s abandoned talents.

These are also the irrefutable facts: Nothing infuriates Yuri like JJ Leroy. It bothers Otabek more than he’s willing to admit.

Otabek is not fully convinced Yuri is aware of his protective instincts, but his hormones are rioting enough without Otabek shaking the foundations of his rage. Yuri cannot be Yuri without rage, at least right now as his body betrays him, forces him through the growth spurts he’s been running from until nature outpaced him.

These are the irrefutable facts: Yuri wants to tell JJ to fuck off as loudly as possible. Otabek adores the fight in Yuri’s eyes. Otabek, unfortunately, has committed to disappointing his mother and the values he was raised under to keep that fighting spirit burning candle bright.

Years from now, in Almaty, Yuri, curled against his chest while he reads on their couch, will randomly ask why he didn’t just use the internet to translate for him. Otabek’s kisses as a ploy to distract from the question fails, and he’ll admit he didn’t trust the internet. More than anything, he just wanted to put in the _effort_ to impress Yuri.

“My hero,” Yuri will announce dryly, utterly sarcastically, but will rub a hand up Otabek’s thigh and move on from this mockery soon enough.

This is the collection process.

* * *

The first languages are easy, gathered early.

Otabek, home from a workout in May, sends a short chat message to Leo, _‘Can you teach me how to swear in Spanish?’_

Leo’s response is atypically quick, even considering the jaws of death are the only things capable of prying his phone from his hands, _‘Whatever situation you’re in, get out!!! Do you need to call me? I can open Skype so you don’t need to worry about international rates.’_

_‘No, nothing like that, but thank you.’_

_‘So you’re not in trouble?’_

_‘No, Leo, I need to know for a gift.’_

_‘Part of me wants to call you an body-snatcher and demand proof of life.’_

_‘We met at fifteen. You were standing still in the middle of the rink. Trying to rap.’_

_‘And then I took you out for burgers where we promised not to bring that up.’_

Otabek taps his phone against his desk and measures the pros and cons of arguing Leo bribed him not to tell their rink mates in America of his lack of skills, not forget the event entirely.

Another message comes up. _‘The real Otabek Altin would never betray a friend like this.’_

Otabek sighs. _‘Stop watching late night sci-fi movies. They’re garbage. Are you helping me or not?’_

Immediately, he realizes his mistake as his Skype app rings loudly, forcing him to accept not just Leo’s call but a passionate diatribe praising sci-fi and horror film soundtracks for the ingenuity they require on such small budgets.

This is not what Otabek signed up for when he was _dragged_ into this friendship, harassed by Leo around the rink until he started accepting work out invitations. Under Leo’s tutelage (and indirectly Phichit Chulanot’s) Otabek created an Instagram, dinner held hostage until he posted a selfie of the two of them. He just wanted to skate with someone passionate. Technically, his wish was granted, but at a chatty cost.

Otabek rolls his eyes and then frowns. “Are you considering techno for your next program? You were leaning towards a mambo in honor of your mother.” Leo’s been on the fence about continuing with the R&B influence or celebrating his family’s Cuban roots but wanted to try something new in genre for the Grand Prix.

Leo grimaces, “No, but Seung-gil Lee used Mambo so well that I can’t get it out of my head.”

A deep sigh rumbles out of his chest. “His program was clinical and over-focused on technical aspects. Your passion will bring it to life. It’s not like you to accept defeat like this.”

“Guang Hong told me not to give up either, but it means a lot hearing it from you too.” He briefly discusses Guang Hong’s struggles to communicate his program ideas with his coach before adding, “Maybe I should have him rewatch your old programs. There’s a lot to understand about commitment.”

“Commitment to his dreams or those of his coach?” Otabek hears the disapproval in his voice and wants to wince, for the sake of Leo’s friendship and the tolerable time he and Guang Hong briefly shared years ago, training together in America.  Regardless, he lacks regret for his critique. Guang Hong failed in China because he didn’t believe in his program, and Otabek will make no apologies for acknowledging it.

Leo groans out, “And that’s why we’re watching videos until he makes up his mind and then we’ll call you.”

“You don’t need to trouble yourself acting as…” Otabek’s English fails him, but Leo waits patiently, “intermediary for us. As long as he calls and keeps it off social media, I don’t mind talking about programs like this.”

“I’ll let him know, thanks. Maybe we should post it on Instagram though, tell the world how open Otabek Altin is,” Leo jokes.

"I'm removing you on Skype and deleting your number,” Otabek threatens, not for the first time, nor, help him, the last.

“I mean it. Thanks. I know it isn’t easy for you-”

“I have a better time when my socialization isn’t forced or documented by dozens of cameras in the ice rink,” Otabek interrupts.

Offering a smile, Leo changes topics and asks, “Why do you need Spanish curses?”

“It’s a long story. Can you just trust me that I need it?”

Leo reclines backwards on the bleachers of the rink, “Does this have anything to do with Yuri Plisetsky?”

Unfortunately for Otabek, he and Leo were rink mates for the final two years of their junior careers. Leo isn’t just among the precious few skaters he speaks to in the off season, who eagerly talks to him in return, but one who spent time learning what the silent tightening of his posture and defensive curl of his shoulders mean.

“Bek, I don’t know if you have a history with Plisetsky or if this is a weird courtship ritual,” Leo begins kindly while Otabek tries not to choke, throat suddenly parched, “but you deserve a lot better than whatever you’re getting involved in.”

“I’m not-”

“Is it blondes? Do you have a type? There’s a skater here named Alex. He’s a pretty friendly guy, down to earth, and I’m proof you won’t let social media use throw you off. Oh! He and his boyfriend broke up three months ago so I know he’s single! And I know he’s nice” Leo’s speaking tempo increases as he describes Alex and his behaviors, "And if he ever hurts you, I'm sure coach will let me uh...punch him? I'll try to punch him!"

Otabek holds a hand up to silence him and the headache creeping at his temples, “We met.”

“Right, right. Four Continents. At least you didn’t trend over that video for too long,” Leo offers sympathetically.

“You know I don’t understand what that means.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It is a gift for Yuri. I thought he’d like a list of ways to cuss someone out in foreign languages,” Otabek admits.

Slightly horrified, Leo’s voice wavers, “Does your Mom know about this? She would hit you and me for helping. This isn’t like you.”

“I wasn’t aware she left such an impression in the five minutes you met her,” Otabek notes, a blend of amused and ashamed.

“She’s a sterner prototype of you when we first met. Of course she left an impression! You have her eyes, ability to inspire fear, and respectfulness. That’s why I’m confused.”

“Neither of us ever envisioned the task I’m undertaking, but it’s for a good cause.”

“Ha,” he pauses momentarily before continuing, “But seriously. I won’t beg you to tell me your secrets, but promise to remember I’m here if you get in over your head?” Leo stares at him, imploring but firm, and Otabek can’t help but smile, touched.

“I will.”

They move on to discussing California’s latest music trends and the bike trip Otabek is planning, and separate with a promise to talk soon, nearly an hour later.

The following morning, Otabek wakes to the following email:

_Bek,_

_I talked to Guang Hong and present you with a list of Mandarin, Spanish, and Portuguese insults and swears. Guang Hong wants his concern on the record._

_The Portuguese comes from Coach. After I asked her to help she put her head on the barrier and recalled how you always held doors open for people, regardless of gender. Then she started looking up who your new coach has worked with before and what happened to them. I think she blames him for ‘ruining our Bek’._

_So, uh, sorry but get ready for a phone call. She’s horrified that you’ve fallen under such influences and demands you come back to us in California._

_Sorry!!!_

_Leo_

_P.S. My friend Phichit is going to email you about this skating event he wants to host. Listen to him! It’s definitely the type of event you’ll want to support._

_Attachment One: Languages_

_Attachment Two: Beach Photo_

Beach photo means a tanned, shirtless Alex taking a selfie.

Otabek wants to regret everything, but Yuri’s spitfire stokes his passions to continue. He vows never to think that phrase again, horrified with himself.

**Six Languages: Russian, Kazakh, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Portuguese**

* * *

The late spring passes quietly, training, exploring Almaty, talking to Yuri, miserable in Russia, and hiding this recent gift from his mother, who can sense the shame on him but is unaware of the origins. Papa is delighted and actively courts his embarrassed groans and quick escapes from the dinner table whenever Yuri is brought up. Ylena, when visiting, joins their father in tormenting him.

There is nothing in the world strong enough to tempt him away from Almatys’ rinks, but his family are gamely trying to send him back to California and Leo.

Phichit is enthusiastic and passionate about Thailand and Phichit on Ice, scheduled for the following year. Though easily exhausted in attempts to follow his plans across social media, their emails and direct conversations go smoothly enough. If nothing else, Otabek respects him, and not just for his ideals. Anyone who can tolerate random questions about cursing in their home language without deleting his contact are heroes. Phichit’s delight in his questions are concerning, but he promised not to post anything on social media once he found out Otabek’s reasoning, so he assumes they’re fine.

Yuri, his Yuri, not Phichit’s, is not invited to Phichit on Ice until his mood settles down, but Otabek is cautiously optimistic that he can convince Yuri to join. Phichit has his doubts, but would love to be proven wrong and then literally have every great skater of their generation join in.

**Seven Languages: Russian, Kazakh, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Portuguese, Thai**

* * *

“I’m dying,” Yuri announces with complete sincerity a week before the Nikiforov-Katsuki nuptials in late summer as they discuss Otabek’s travel arrangements.

“What plush figure should I buy for the funeral?” Yuri has begun every conversation, over text and Skype, with that proclamation for the week he’s been in Japan.

“I’ll haunt you. Good luck landing jumps in competitions,” Yuri’s face is buried under a pillow, muffling the shouts he occasionally utters in response to sounds Otabek can’t fully understand over their connection, likely one of the grooms.

“Aren’t I lucky then?”

“To be an utter failure?” Yuri replies with disgust. Immediately, Otabek knows he isn’t the point of conversation.

“You won Worlds Yuri. How is that a failure?”

“Because Katsudon didn’t bother showing up, you injured yourself, and beating JJ was meaningless after his on ice meltdown! There was no competition! Did you not see the embarrassment that was every American? This was my only year because this fucking body won’t stop ruining my life, and I won by default, not my own skills! Bastard!” Yuri hits the pillow.

Things have been...strained since Worlds, to put it delicately. Half of their conversations result in Yuri’s temper flaring up or moody silences until Otabek drags him back to the present. Other times it is normal, Yuri describing the antics of his skaters or family, his unhidden concern over Otabek’s ankle injury or feelings at having to withdraw from the competition just a week before traveling. Those are the good days, where he’s earned Lilia’s praise in the studio, landed his jumps perfectly.

They do not point out Otabek currently barely has an inch on him, the lack of balance he has during his more difficult moves, or alterations in his voice and temperament.

“Is this a day where you want to be miserable or talk to me?” Otabek asks, unperturbed, though slightly annoyed about the needless attack on Leo. Delayed puberty is hitting Yuri’s especially hard right now. The difficult off season and the wedding are creating a chaotic storm over a short time period.

“Both?” He asks, exhausted.

“Okay,” Otabek replies gently. Sometimes Yuri just wants him to talk, refusing comfort in the conventional way.

“This sucks, Beka.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be here soon, right? Because I will murder that trash from home.”

“No killing the groom until I arrive.”

“Fine, fine. Did I tell you they’re trying to make a tuxedo for the dog?” Yuri’s voice sharpens in disdain.

“Really?” It isn’t surprising, from what Otabek knows of the couple.

“They argued over which one the dog should match. There’s a week left. How is this still an issue with these assholes? Beka, promise to end my life before I get married.”

“No. Your coaches will destroy me, and then where will I be?”

“In the afterlife haunting ice rinks with me?” Yuri’s voice is muffled again, so Otabek hums in acknowledgement before moving them onto less stressful subjects.

Before signing off, Otabek remembers to ask for Yuuri Katsuki’s email.

“Why do you need it?” Yuri’s hackles are raised. Normally his fierce protective streak when it comes to Japanese Yuuri is one of his cuter traits, but not when he’s being an asshole about it.

“I have questions on where to send the gift if it fails to arrive on time, that’s all.”

Months later, after a lengthy honeymoon, an exuberant Victor Nikiforov-Katsuki emails him answers with help from a ballet instructor named Minako because Yuuri is ‘ _too exhausted for emails!!!!! <3 <3 <3 _’. In what should have proven an ominous sign, Nikiforov finds Otabek’s idea delightful and offers him tips on horrible French slang and a promise to recruit Cristophe, who Otabek is unruffled to discover, happily adds on to his total with German.

The following week, a horrified Yuuri emails him, but there’s no going back for either of them. 

**Ten Languages: Russian, Kazakh, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Portuguese, Thai, Japanese, French, German.**

* * *

In October, Otabek is in Detroit for Skate America, bargaining with Michele Crispino.

“I have no interest in your sister,” Otabek repeats for the third time. Somewhere in St. Petersburg, Yuri must have gotten a burst of energy from the positive thoughts Otabek sends his way. After a summer of Yuri’s fits and sulks, Michele Crispino is like going back to novice level after competing against champions.

“Then why is she so starry eyed whenever you leave?” Crispino replies. According to Yuri, who ‘suffers under the cruel reign of Mila’s gossip sessions’ Crispino’s gotten better at hovering away from Sara but Otabek isn’t convinced.

He should have paid a translator for this knowledge but results found online for Italian were inconclusive. Yuri is getting proper examples, even if Otabek has to talk to half the Italians in skating.

“I don’t know,” Otabek repeats, again. “ _I’m_ not trying to date _her_.”

Unfortunately, Crispino misses his point entirely, “Is your friend Plisetsky? He’s too young for her!”

The last thing Otabek wants to consider is Yuri dating Sara, and he says as much.

Crispino is increasingly frustrated, and Otabek just wants to return to his hotel and call Yuri about his program results. He adds, “Yuri will never notice your sister, and I’m too focused on him. Teaching him to swear at his male competitors is the greatest guarantee you have in keeping him away from her.”

Michele Crispino is no fool, and begins nodding in agreement before taking out his phone and calling someone while using Otabek’s phone to transcribe a series of brutal, terrifying oaths. Yuri will be delighted, his mother horrified.

“Emil, I need you to teach Otabek how to say fuck off in Czech,” Mickey commands.

Faintly, Otabek hears, “But Mickey, that’s so rude! Why would I do that?”

“Just do it for me and Sara!”

Never before has Otabek questioned if he cared enough for Yuri to see this through, but now he has a moment of weakness as he watches Michele Crispino badger Emil Nekola, separated by oceans.

He vows to send an apology immediately, polite values rallying whenever they can.

Weeks later at the Rostelecom Cup, Otabek, not participating, watches Yuri rush past Sara, ignorant of her existence despite Mila at her side. He receives a nod of solidarity from her brother, uninvited but now a part of his life.

‘Yuri is worth it,’ Otabek repeats to himself as he walks to the arena seating before Yuri’s performance, hoping he’s right.

**Twelve Languages: Russian, Kazakh, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Portuguese, Thai, Japanese, French, German, Italian, Czech**

* * *

Though it pains Yuri to think about, Otabek can get along with JJ Leroy, has known him since a brief summer of training in Canada when he was fourteen, before he settled in a different part of the country and then travelled south to Leo. JJ remembers their time together with more fondness and nostalgia than Otabek does, but he’s also successfully recruited Otabek to do charity work for skaters during the off season in years past, so that might help his friendly mood.

He’s been invited to the Leroy-Yang wedding, but that’s not something Yuri needs to know.

Refusing to start this conversation in person, Otabek texts, ‘ _How do you say fuck off in French?_ ’ He doesn’t trust Victor Nikiforov after everything Yuri’s told him and will not let a Russian ruin months of careful planning.

‘ _Do you mean Quebecois French or Parisian French?_ ’ replies JJ hours later, understandable considering the time zone differences. He doesn’t question Otabek, which is the oddest part of this conversation.

‘Either. I’m collecting insults and swears for Yuri’s birthday gift. They’ll likely be used in your direction.’ Definitely, Otabek knows not to type, but thinks forcefully in JJ’s direction.

‘That’s...fitting. Don’t let him talk like this to Isabella!’ JJ texts back before promising to send an email to double check Otabek’s current French.

Otabek wishes these transnational efforts were all so painless.

**Twelve Languages: Russian, Kazakh, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Portuguese, Thai, Japanese, French (edited), German, Italian, Czech**

* * *

At the Trophée de France, Otabek, done with these proceedings, gives up on subtlety or explanations. Spotting Seung-gil Lee’s disinterest in whatever his coach has to say, Otabek waves him over once she’s done speaking, though Seung-gil might have just walked away.

“What’s the proper pronunciation of saying fuck off in Korean?”

His fellow skater blinks, then answers without further prompting.

“Thank you,” Otabek replies, then goes back to his own coach.

Months later a pouty Yuri will question why Seung-gil Lee has begun nodding and standing next to Otabek during competitions, and Otabek won’t have the heart to answer, mainly because he never wants to know what’s going on in Lee’s head.

Someone notices the trio at the edge of the rink and dubs them #saltsquad. It is enough to make Yuri stop pouting, at least for that season.

**Thirteen Languages: Russian, Kazakh, English, Spanish, Mandarin, Portuguese, Thai, Japanese, French (edited), German, Italian, Czech, Korean**

* * *

**(March, 2018, Russia)**

“But you hate talking to the other skaters.”

“Not as much as you hate JJ.”

“Can I guess the languages?”

“If you want?”

“This one is Kazakh! I think I’ve heard people screaming that at your house.”

Otabek offers a pained, “Yes. Yes you have,” and knows Yuri is secretly fist bumping over being an only child.

“Is this Italian?”

“Huh? No, the next one is. That’s French.”

“Oh, you had to talk to the incest twin Mila’s friend with, right?”

“No, Sara’s brother.”

“The male Crispino? Beka, you idiot, you shouldn’t have put yourself through _that_.”

“Are you crying?”

“No, fuck off!”

“If you’re going to swear at me, you can do it in something other than Russian.”

“Ugh.”

* * *

**(February 2024)**

It is a testament to Lilia that Yuri no longer debates a passive suicide by swallowing his weight in water while he takes a shower. Instead, he merely smacks a fist against ceramic tiles, like a mature adult. After, he cajoles Aktos into his crate and orders Sasha, curled up on the couch, to watch the place while he’s away. The ranking of organisms Yuri currently trusts in the apartment goes Sasha, bacteria in the kitchen sink, Aktos, a local ghost, Otabek, so he’s reliably confident there will be a home to return to. Otabek’s likely at the rink, despite the fact he announced that the end was fucking nigh in a well attended press conference. Coaches stopped calling security over his violent tendencies ages ago so technically nothing can stop Yuri from carving a path of destruction through Almaty until he gets his hands on the wavy strands of Otabek’s hair and tugs him home.  
  
Nothing halts him except a Herculean level of self restraint. Well that and nearly a decade of echoed memories, memories dominated by Otabek’s unwavering willingness to let Yuri go, to let Yuri adjust at his own speed. If petty vengeance wasn’t the fuel keeping his heart beating, Yuri could admit he has no leg to stand on in faulting Otabek for hiding down the street at the rink. His primary coping mechanism is fleeing like a sheepish animal to Japan and sulking in a hot spring. At least Beka remains on the continent.  
  
Instead, Yuri swallows the toxic thoughts and thinks of the only individual on his side in this damn country. Besides, his instincts are frantically straining to actually prevent an Altin tragedy. If he can’t save the younger Altin generation from themselves (and god help him, he has fucking tried but they’re impossible and Lilia did not raise him to commit to fool errands) he can at least make sure no one is poisoning themselves in an apartment across town, where Otabek’s parents recently settled after selling the family home.  
  
‘Let yourself in!’ Otabek’s father texts him as the cab drops him off outside. Last year, when Yuri received a copy of the apartment’s keys, Otabek excused himself from the room, misty-eyed. Yuri has never been cruel enough to tell Otabek his father is just too lazy to fetch him whenever he visits. At least, that’s Yuri’s justification for owning keys to the family residence.  
  
Maybe it’s a Kazakhstani thing.  
  
“Hello my little foal!” Aslan calls out joyously, perched on a stool near the floor to ceiling windows of the living room. Half of his lanky body is blocked by an easel. A streak of white creates a jagged line in his dark gray hair. “I’ve decided to take up painting. Apparently it will relax me.”  
  
“You need more stress! Go back to the office,” Yuri huffs out. “I bet money with Ylena that you’d give up on this retirement concept by spring. Clock is ticking old man.” The deaf could hear the obvious affection in his voice, and Aslan’s grin, naturally fuller that Otabek’s, acknowledges it happily.  
  
Aslan tips off the stool and makes a dramatic show of checking his watch. He taps at it twice, holds it to his ear. “Time for lunch. What shall we have?”

  
The bright lights of heaven flash before Yuri’s eyes as he barks out, “Nothing you help prepare.” Yuri inevitably fights with the fire services during each culinary disaster, annoyed at how amused they are. One dubbed him ‘The Terror’ and he wears it like a badge of honor.  
  
Obligingly, Aslan chatters at his heels while Yuri navigates to the kitchen. Apparently he’s inspired to paint trees. The trees on the canvas are shades of blue and red. Yuri thought they were dogs and refuses to ask for clarification.  
  
“Raisa’s out shopping. Stay for dinner too so she doesn’t interrogate me on the size of your waist and paleness of your skin.”  
  
Opening the fridge, Yuri rolls his eyes, states, “You offer those details freely.”  
  
Aslan laughs loudly in return, patting Yuri on the shoulder as he pulls out a steamer. “Touché. I planned to create dumplings with the ground lamb in the fridge,” he suggests.  
  
Yuri hits him with the steamer and shoves him out of the kitchen. He’s been played. Manti are among Aslan’s favorite foods but, without exception, the wrappers unravel and the seasoning spreads unevenly if he cooks them.  
  
If Yuri didn’t know four members of the Almaty fire services by name, he’d be more displeased by this turn of events.  
  
As he works, Aslan peppers him with questions and comments.  
  
“Does my son still draw breath?”  
  
“Unfortunately and despite my best efforts.”  
  
“We’re very proud of your performance in the European Championships.”  
  
“Ylena sent me a video of you crying.”  
  
“Well I can’t have been the only one! You were very graceful.”  
  
“My free leg got sloppy during the finale of the short program.”  
  
“How are the pets?”  
  
“You knew that asshole let the dog get fat and didn’t warn me.”  
  
“Says the man who failed to alert us about the purpose of Beka’s press conference.”  
  
Yuri slams a palm against the counter and hisses. “I didn’t know.” He refuses to turn away from the stove and witness the expressions crossing Aslan’s face.  
  
“Did we ever tell you about Otabek’s first major snowstorm?” Aslan asks wistfully, apropos of nothing.  
  
“Back when you were living near Astana?” Yuri looks up in confusion, nose twitching as he notices a smear of flour dotting the tip.  
  
“When we had the apartment on the outskirts of Astana,” Aslan continues blithely.  
  
Yuri nods, “And he was adorable, and five. Look, there’s pictures in the hall showing me what he looked like.”  
  
“He was so young back then, our Otabek, and oh his puffy cheeks! Ylena used to tease him so.”  
  
“Am I supposed to be part of this conversation?”  
  
“Raisa was so concerned because-”  
  
“Because it doesn’t snow in Astana” Yuri finishes.  
  
“Because it never snowed like that in Astana during Otabek’s lifetime, that he could remember at least. She fretted over him, our little baby, tearful on good days. But the look on his face when the flakes started falling from the sky and onto his skin, like experiencing magic for the first time and knowing it’s real,” Aslan adds, twirling a fork between his fingers.  
  
“He dislikes magic shows. Immensely.” Otabek isn’t prone to bouts of anxiety but extreme spectacles where someone nearly drowns always unsettle him.  
  
“We should have realized he belonged to the ice back then.”  
  
Yuri hums in agreement, then frowns. “Hadn’t he already started skating lessons?” Yuri owns a copied photo of an elementary aged Otabek being carted around a quiet rink by a cousin, potentially Flura or Aiganym. He can never tell the twins apart when they’re under sixteen in images since Flura hadn’t started dyeing her hair unnatural colors.  
  
“Had he? I can’t recall.”  
  
“He had.”  
  
A pause, and Aslan looks up expectantly.  
  
Yuri sighs and continues, baffled how he can never escape playing this damn game, “After the worst of the weather was over, and the streets were plowed you went out to the park.”  
  
“The plowing system was fantastic, and we were near a park so we took the children out to play.”  
  
“Ylena threw snowballs, and Otabek collapsed in the snow.”  
  
“Ylena and that southpaw of hers made snowballs bigger than my fist, a true veteran of winter. Our little ice king had no interest in the violence.”  
  
“And then I showed up fifteen years later to prove that wrong,” Yuri interjects and then swears when Aslan’s fork slams down on his wrist. “You won’t talk over that?”  
  
Aslan arches an eyebrow and says, “He spun and spun in dizzying circles, giggling while Raisa ordered him to slow down. She thought he would slip and injure himself, and then he did. He fell.”  
  
“Let me guess. He picked himself up, posed for your photo, and went home with a cold despite Raisa’s best efforts.  
  
“He sat there and passively watched his sister create balls of snow. So he mirrored her example, as all young siblings instinctively do.”  
  
“My lack of sister is proof there is a God.”  
  
Aslan points out, “But you have Ylena now, and that Mila of yours.”  
  
“Don’t say that! What if she hears you?” Yuri replies, routinely. Mila knows how he feels by now. “Go back to your point Old Man.”  
  
“My point is the end of the story, one you fail to realize, or remember. Otabek didn’t just fall. He made snowballs, and then he refused to throw them.”

“Huh? That’s...new actually. Why didn’t he throw them?”

“Because he had plans for them. One was to fix the other balls of snow, like a doctor. Another was going to skate since it rolled around so easily. A third could be the audience. He gave frozen water plans and jobs to fulfill.”

Aslan continues, somber now, “Otabek used to terrify us with his development. Ylena spoke and walked so much sooner than he did. We thought ourselves prepared, second child should have meant fewer questions, but you know better than anyone how Otabek follows his own pace. It took us time to realize that. And once we did, we noticed something else, something balls of snow from the age of five prove rather nicely.”  
  
“He always has a plan,” Yuri admits, nonplussed by this revelation but soothed all the same.

“He always has a plan,” Aslan echoes in agreement.

Fondly, he adds, “And for years, those plans have always included you, so don’t fault him until knowing what awaits you next, alright?”  
  
Yuri exhales, and leans against a counter.  
  
Taking pity on him, Aslan brightly asks, “Shall we go through the photo albums and post the ugly outfits Raisa used to make him wear online? The food needs time.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Yuri never claimed to be a good partner but, he thinks as a thumb traces Otabek’s small baby face as he hugs an old dog toy, he can be one that listens for five minutes before throwing a punch and breaking his beloved’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things I want to say:
> 
> First of all, thank you all for your comments, kudos, tumblr messages, and putting me on fic recs. I don't have words to describe my gratitude. I feel guilty not writing for you guys sometimes. I hope you can enjoy where this story goes and forgive this (weak as all hell) chapter. 
> 
> I genuinely think Otabek would react well to Leo who is not EXTRA but has dreams and passions. He'd probably get along with Guang Hong once he decides what he wants as a skater. Otabek himself is so polite and well mannered, even to JJ that I can't believe I assigned him the task of getting people to swear at him. Also, don't think I didn't notice my boy in that Phichit on Ice Performance (or the lack of Yurio).
> 
> Also, welcome to your introduction of the Altin parents. This will happen in the story, but Otabek's dad will meet Yuri during his awkward stage as he's growing and will dub him Little Foal.
> 
> [Give me prompts/Scream with me on tumblr](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Someone asked me to create a timeline for the story so here it is](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/post/154659055298/timeline-for-soldier-boy-minor-spoilers/)
> 
> Finally, I wrote a happier one-shot for these two (that might get an Otabek POV bonus chapter depending on how well I can write his voice). Check it out if this story depresses you I guess?


	5. the first chapter, where you decide to stay (2017-2018, 2024)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri Plisetsky is helpless, lovesick, and desperate to fight half the skaters who cross his path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you for the incredible support and feedback. I’m forever stunned. You’re all amazing and make this super fun to create, even as I want to scream at 2 AM. Let me offer you a chapter three times the size as normal. Unbetaed. 
> 
> Title from Hamilton, as always. Whenever I discover and love non-Hamilton song snippets my scumbag brain whispers ‘Otabek POV companion piece chapter titles after this ends, do it’. 
> 
> I started this story before episode 11 meaning Yuri obviously didn’t win or earn a world record short program.
> 
> Remember in the first chapter how I guessed with would be like 30000 words long and complained that I had just wanted to write a 5k one-shot? Terrifyingly enough, most of the scenes I envisioned that inspired this story haven’t been written yet.
> 
> The end includes details about the chapter and my update schedule, but for now, enjoy!

**(March 2024)**

The sky unleashes a torrential downpour nearly two weeks after Yuri Plisetsky’s departure. Dmitry’s window is streaked with water, the outside a murky abyss. If Dmitry was the poet of the group instead of… actually, none of them are poets. Hell, only Mila and Alexi can pass for something other than escapees from a sanitorium or an island of misfit toys.

But if Dmitry was a poet, the dark symbolism of an uncertain, bleak future would choke him. Briefly, he is reminded of Pyotr and how Plisetsky threatened to ‘ _choke this bastard’_ for practicing axels while an angsty American love song repeated for the tenth time. Pyotr can’t carry a tune or keep a girlfriend. He and Alexi had paid for singing lessons in their junior years, right before Pyotr left them for his professional debut in 2022. The vocal coach returned their cash after three weeks and told them to never call back. That was the second greatest tragedy of his life.

Fans, swept up in a mourning process, post social media updates about a miserable Otabek Altin spotted at his Almaty rink. Dmitry is constantly reminded that he lives in an unrelenting hell.

“Imagine the sitcom I could write about the Russian Skating Federation,” Dmitry tells Alexi as they drive to training.

Alexi, keeping him under watchful guard for the twelfth consecutive day, snorts derisively. “A media career wouldn’t suit you.”

“Wouldn’t suit me? The camera loves me. I’m adaptable and wonderful with technology. I am a natural star!”

“It took Mila three weeks to teach you Instagram and your mother constantly complains about you ruining family photos,” Alexi points out blandly, parking the car.

“Stop talking to my mother,” Dmitry says, aggravatedly pushing open an umbrella. “Also you deleted your Instagram months ago. I proved myself a prodigy. A _prodigy_ Alexi. Do you see my followers?”

Alexi blows a stray piece of sandy brown hair out of his face. It is startlingly obvious that the trauma of the past few weeks is getting to him if he can’t keep up appearances. Dmitry mourns the death of his clean-cut partner. “My Instagram was comprised of photos of you, photos taken by you, or videos I ordered you not to film. Of course I deleted that app. I never wanted one to begin with.”

“Feelings of inadequacy are expected in the face of brilliance,” Dmitry offers as he gently taps Alexi’s lower back, radiating innocence, sympathy, and concern.

“Well yes, it is difficult to compete on Instagram knowing Plisetsky’s is vastly superior, but I’m glad that hasn’t discouraged you,” Alexi responds calmly, walking away from Dmitry’s affection and through the doors of the rink.

Dmitry reconsiders his position on Yuri Plistesky’s title as ‘Ultimate Life Ruiner’. He knows the true villain of this rink, feels betrayal etch across his broken hearted soul.

Trying to force himself to cry so he can sell his trauma, Dmitry fails to realize Alexi has frozen in front of him and crashes against his back. He clings to Alexi’s slim shoulders, like he has most of his life, and peers over them to witness whatever caught Alexi’s gray eyes.

“Oh no. No. No. Nonononononononono. Fuck no. No. Nope. Nyet. Not happening. Alexi fix this,” Dmitry whispers in his ear, “But not by going over there,” he continues, grasping Alexi harder in panicked desperation. He will not lose him to this war, not his Alexi. “We should leave. We’re sick. Let’s go.”

Yuri Plisetsky skates across the ice, scowling but beautiful in his movements. Mila watches, silent as the grave, while Yakov stands nearby, speaking with Yuri’s terrifying Dance Mom.

Otabek Altin is nowhere to be found.

* * *

**(2017: The Year from Hell, as Proclaimed by the Victimized, Traumatized Yuri Plisetsky, Who Did Not Ask For This. At All. Not Once.)**  

**(Worlds)**

Otabek is the harbinger of the worst year of Yuri’s professional life. In March, a week before Yuri travels across the continent for Worlds in Finland, his practice is interrupted by a series of tweets announcing Otabek Altin collided with another skater and fractured his left ankle. 

Yuri calls four fucking times. Whenever the phone rings unanswered, he envisions increasingly gruesome sights, severed tendons or Beka bleeding out while his incompetent coaching staff and rink mates look on.

“Are you alright?” Yuri’s voice cracks slightly once Beka finally picks up.

“No permanent damage expected. We’re waiting on x-ray results but it’s likely a minor fracture. They’re optimistic I won’t need surgery,” Beka replies stoically. He refuses to open the video app so Yuri can’t see his face.

“How the hell did you not notice another skater?” Yuri howls, reassured concern melting away to pure ire.

“Temir slipped out a failed jump, skid across the ice, and slammed into me as I warmed up. Nothing to be done.”

“Temir?” Yuri wants to know who to kill. He didn’t need Lilia to teach him how to kick, but since he met her, his damage and range are deadly.

Otabek sighs across the line, “Temir Sapiyev, one of the best junior skaters.”

“There are other decent skaters at your rink?” Yuri asks as he begins stalking Temir’s twitter account on his laptop.

“Rephrase that, _now_.” Suddenly, Yuri is thankful not to see the threat promised in the thin line of Beka’s mouth.

Yuri knows better than to repeat himself. “I’ve never heard of him,” he finally says.

“Temir’s career overlapped with yours last season. He just competed in World Juniors.”

“I’m not great at noticing other skaters.” Honestly, Yuri wasn’t even aware there was _another_ Kazakstan skater lighting up the pro circuit.

As Otabek hums in agreement, Yuri realizes just how obvious his confession was.

“This doesn’t mean you can’t come to Finland, alright?” Yuri reminds him, desperate to see Otabek with his own eyes. “I’ll skate for you.” _I’ll win the gold medal for you._

Otabek quietly promises to fly out if the doctors allow it and quickly says goodbye.

Yuri spends the rest of his evening hunting down tweets from people who saw the crash and liking numerous accounts who criticize Temir. Occasionally he sends pictures of kittens to Otabek’s phone, but they go ignored.

Otabek catches a horrific stomach flu by the end of the week, and Yuri hates everything. He hates Otabek for his injury, Katsudon for retiring, Victor for his legacy, his body for its imminent growth spurt, everyone for indulging Victor’s whims over the years, Lilia for the tightness of his braids, Mila for his headache, Yakov for his deafening screams, his fangirls for breathing, and JJ for existing.

He stands alone, looking at Helsinki’s waters, and hates that no warm memories of Japan, of Barcelona, of _people_ come to mind, regardless of who is waiting for him at the rink. Katsuki and his useless fiancee are gone. Beka couldn’t even manage a plane ride. Grandpa watches from Moscow, his familiar touch now distant in the absence.

What he thought he knew of agape is quiet in his head, a timid whisper he begs to rise to the surface. He can’t permit himself the frustration, the rage right now, not when he wasn’t good enough at the Grand Prix and the European Championships. The night before his short program, he chants names aloud in the hotel room. Grandpa. Yuuko. The Nishigori family. Mila. Georgi. Lilia. Yakov. Otabek. Victor. Yuuri.

Grandpa tugs his mittens on, ruffles his hair before he escorts them out the door, to the rink Yuri learned to skate and fall on. Yuri smells the laundry detergent Yuuko buys and remembers how, whenever he hid at her house from those crazy bastards, he always helped her clean while her triplets ran around with her husband. Mila’s fingers are around his bicep as she hauls him around the ice, playful teasing after his first silver medal in Canada. Under his tongue, coffee burns, a constant companion of Georgi when anxiously awaiting his girlfriend’s texts. He sees the photo album Lilia didn’t tuck away properly, her girlish figure as Yakov twirls her on their wedding day, and he remembers a smaller copy of the image spotted in a split second glance as Yakov opened his wallet. The rumble of Otabek’s bike while his arms circle his body, the rumble of Otabek’s chest as he laughs with Yuri loop quietly in the background of his mind. Faintly he remembers coughing up hot springs water as Victor shoves him, but also the taste of frost in the air as Victor promised a program. Every time he blinks, he thinks of Yuuri Katsuki’s footwork, his smile on a Russian bridge in winter, the heady addictive rush of watching Yuuri surprise Victor, _surprise Yuri_ time and time again. He purposefully forgets Yuuri’s contentment as he abandons them all, gold medal around his neck, and restarts his chant.

In the morning, Victor arrives like a sunshower, unexpected but bright, and lunges for Yuri, holding him to his chest while he waits in the hotel lobby for Yakov.

“Wrong Yuri jackass!” He shouts, wiggling out of his grip.

Victor’s weird grin evaporates as he exclaims, “I could never confuse my Yuuri with you! For one, he is much cuter.”

Yuri doesn’t have the time, energy, or mental fortitude to hear whatever lovesick speech Victor has in mind and frantically looks for a savior.

He settles on the other Yuuri and blinks, stunned. Katsudon radiates happiness and stares at Victor like he holds the secrets of the universe in his careless hands. Why has nobody told him he can do better?

“You two make me sick,” he chokes out, disgusted as Victor clings to his superior half instead

“It’s like you want us to tell embarrassing stories to Yuri’s Angels in the stands,” Katsudon replies cooly, and Yuri faces a horrific reminder of why he actually likes him on days hell freezes over.

At least one mentor remains remarkably unamused with the lot of them, Yuri thinks as Lilia rescues him, Yakov in tow.

She nods at the couple before flicking a wrist at Yuri. For once he obediently trails after her, ignoring Victor’s shout of “Yakov! I’ve missed you” or how strongly Yakov returns his hug.

“Yuri! We’ll be cheering for you!” Yakov’s treasured son-in-law shouts as the coach pries Victor off him.

Yuri and Lilia walk away faster.

Katsuki’s promise comes true hours later as he watches that American bastard who mocked Otabek on Twitter leave the ice, a respectable score of 98.47. Yuri will destroy it with extreme prejudice.

“GO YURIO!”

“YURIOOOOO”

“DAVAI!” He nearly trips over his skates, scanning the crowd and finding Otabek, pale but _here_ , standing next to Victor and Yuuri, holding flags.

Yuri beams, and skates his heart out, buoyed and light. He remembers the chants of his hotel room, the shadow Otabek casts in the stand, ignores the pang of loneliness once Katsudon abandoned him, growing smaller every axel but still tickling underneath his spine. There’s still time. Victor’s brutal program propels him, the force of Yakov and Lilia sustains him as he transitions between jumps, the ghost of Yuuri Katsuki’s grace haunting his own in the best of ways. Grandpa’s agape is the foundation, but Otabek and Mila and Yuuko are pillars he can’t compete without.

He finishes with a graceful bow of his spine, flexibility incarnate, and doesn’t hesitate to pick up both a tiger toy and a frowning bear cub as he travels to the kiss and cry. Lilia actually cries over his new personal best of 110.14. Yakov hugs him and his fans lose their minds and voices in the stands. Yuri thinks of the other Yuuri and vows to stop defining his skating by the loss. There’s room to improve for next year, when JJ and Otabek unleash even more challenging programs, but he can’t help the thrill soaking through his veins.

Christophe Giacometti grips the backs of Yuuri and Victor’s jackets as they balance precariously across the metal barrier where other skaters have collected in the stands, ecstatic and screaming his name as they wave. He’s going to be so pissed if they end up dying in a crash to the ground, forcing him to cancel his celebrations for their funerals.

Beka’s grin has never been so wide, his applause so thunderous, and Yuri clings to the bear randomly thrown across his path until he can launch himself at his friend.

He dodges reporters with skills years of experience honed and curls next to Otabek’s side in an empty seat as they wait for other programs to finish. Otabek may be contagious, but Yuri accepts his warmth as suitable compared to the grabby hands Mila, Victor, and other Yuuri are making in his direction.

An euphoric victory doesn’t mean he’s lost all rationality.

“Proud of you,” Otabek whispers against his head and, as proof of his success, doesn’t comment on Yuri booing JJ’s name as it reverberates through the speakers.

JJ _chokes._

Yuri is secure enough in his humanity to admit how wondrous the spectacle is, at least for the first few moves. Then it spirals into depressing and awkward, draws concern from Katsuki, who likely sees a pet project. Yuri is annoyed at how quickly he moves on from praising him but not enough to leave Beka’s side and abuse other Yuuri.

“There’s no recovering from that, is there?” A female voice asks nearby, clearly on the same wavelength as Yuri.

“Nope,” someone else replies.

Yuri preen next to Otabek.

He stops preening the following morning as he looks over the scores. The Americans, as a collective group, crashed and burned. It’s a miracle Otabek came out of that training more or less intact. Yuri didn’t expect much from them but _damn_. There’s something in the water in California. God only knows how the French wreck qualified.

If Yuri hears an announcer sympathize with a young skater from China or South Korea for their youth and inexperience, he’ll take hostages. He’s fucking fifteen and the youngest one performing, what’s their excuse?

Georgi does well enough. At the very least he doesn’t shame Russia. Yuri now understands small mercies. Giacometti manages to stay upright on his skates, which is more than Yuri can say for the loser they dragged out from Japan. He can’t believe Michele Crispino gives him a challenge, but beggars can’t be choosers when no one decided to show up for the fucking World Championships.

JJ’s struggles lose all amusement, become upsetting. He hasn’t beaten JJ. JJ’s anxiety beats him. Faintly he feels the itch of bitter rage that forced him to confront Yuuri Katsuki over a year ago, and wants to punch something as he awaits his turn on the ice.

Yuri’s free skate is exemplary, his loops and spins gorgeous. Praise rains down on him, but after his score guarantees him a medal, he stares forlornly at Otabek and Yuuri, bitter his real competition didn't bother lacing up.

Agape is fading, and he snaps at everyone, who dutifully ignore his current fit to watch Yuuri’s best friend twirl around.

Otabek sighs heavily at his side. Yuri settles down temporarily, guilt flushing across his skin like Otabek’s fever, and pretends he’s kicking Temir in the head every time he extends a leg.

“Fuck JJ,” he whispers to Otabek, moody. Otabek stirs next to him momentarily, then squeezes his arm.

When he wins gold, people cry. He isn’t one of them, unable to shake off the feeling of being both the victor and the vanquished.

Off the ice, the empty loss of Yuuri Katsuki is unforgettable.

* * *

**(Spring-Summer)**  
  
Life sucker punches Yuri in early April. He awakens to a daily hell. The sheets are sticky (he’s not fucking thinking about who stars in the dreams waking him up or their dark hair), his hormones are raging, and his growth spurts hurt like a bitch. Measuring himself is an unrelenting struggle in not tearing apart the door frame as the notches raise up. Lilia’s pissed he’s damaging the wood, but nothing in Yuri gives enough of a damn to stop. On bad days he calls Japan to insult Katsuki or listen to Yuuko describe the new skaters at her rink. It’s one of the few guarantees to cheer him up.

Each day is a new way in creatively falling apart on the ice, limbs out of place and sending him sprawling to the ground. Yakov has seen this happen time and time again, tells him he’s lucky this began in the off season. He ignores Yuri’s mood swings better than anyone else, keeps him focused on goals and re-creating an identity. Whenever Yuri rages, Yakov drags him back to the earth. Georgi, debating retirement, repositions his leg whenever they share the rink. Mila flew to Italy to visit her friend as the season concluded, but she won’t stop texting him upon her return in May.

 _Missed Call from Hag_  
   Voicemail: Yura, we’re missing you at the rink. It has been four days since a cell phone related incident. The custodians are confused by the lack of broken screen shards glittering on the floor.

 _Missed Call from Hag_  
   Voicemail: Yura, if you don’t stop sulking, I will come steal your cat and force you to play outside regardless of your outfit.

 _Text Message from Hag_  
   Message: Yura, the store that sells your workout gear is having a sale. Come shopping with us. I’ll buy you a new jacket.

 _Text Message from Hag_  
   Message: Yuuuuuuuura

 _Text Message from Hag_  
   Message: Yurio!

 _Text Message from Hag_  
   Message: I will follow Yakov home.

She enter the house through a window Yakov purposefully left open, and nearly breaks his arm as she carries him down the street to her car.

Yuri picks up her calls at least twice a week afterwards.

Lilia constantly barks out orders, fixes his form, and ignores any tears trying to leakl out of his eyes when his hip spasms in protest. His flexibility is the battlefield she has chosen to die on, and Yuri wavers between gratitude and loathing.

He allows himself to die under their hands, but can’t figure out how to be reborn.

Otabek isn’t ignorant to his silences, his fury but Yuri tries to spare him the worst of the frustration in their calls, his texts, the pictures he sends daily. Occasionally he takes it out on Almaty, never Beka himself. He’s only hung up on Yuri twice. Considering both involved Yuri lashing out against Almaty rinks and resources, it is an understandable amount.

Yuuri Katsuki still intends to marry Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuko picks him up from the airport two weeks before the wedding, bubbly despite the damnation Hasetsu must be, transformed by the nuptials. That crazy ballet teacher of Yuuri apparently set up a flash mob of citizens, and that fact almost kept him on the plane.

“How bad?” Yuri wonders with the solemness of a soldier.

Yuuko laughs. “Everything will be fine. They’re just stressed out. If anything, we’re all surprised it isn’t crazier. You know how those two are.”

“I didn’t think they’d last so long without eloping.”

“Neither did the girls!”

When he gets dropped off at the hot springs, he finds Victor with his shirt off, pinning his fiancee to the ground and stripping off his hoodie. Immediately Yuri turns around and refuses to leave Yuuko’s house or the rink for three days. Even then, he throws things at whatever door he’s about to pass through.

The annoying sister that dubbed him Yurio sends him looks of commiseration. Katsuki’s parents are too overjoyed to care about impropriety. Customers and the town itself indulge them all. Disgusting.

Whirlwind, busy days preoccupy his week. He whines to Otabek in the evenings and pretends he’s humming sympathetically instead of laughing under his breath as Yuri details how he wants to die, how he wants Victor to die.

“Makkachin would look better in black. We can dress Yurio in your colors. You’ll have matching ties,” Victor pleads, pretending Yuri isn’t even in the damn room with functioning vocal cords ready to protest a change in outfit five days before the ceremony.

Shockingly, love has turned Katsuki spineless, nuzzling against Victor in agreement. Yuri prepares himself to throw up until other Yuuri replies, “Only if I select the ties. Yurio, what do you think of power blue? I have a lucky tie I want to wear.”

Victor blanches, face falling and eyes wide with betrayal. Yuri perks up in approval.

“Your wedding,” he shrugs. Inside his hoodie pocket, he starts his phone, prepared to text Mila the whipping of Victor Nikiforov.

The poodle in question snores on the floor. Yuri estimates it will be two days until Victor realizes he’s lost.

(He gives by the following morning, a ring of hickey’s around his neck. Yuri spends the day at Yuuko’s and _does not think about it_.)

* * *

“Is it too late to warn him?” Yuri whispers to Otabek as Victor paces past them, eager for the ceremony to begin. Christophe waves a flask in the air, dutifully offering it every time Victor walks by his side. At least the dog seems fine.

“You want to warn Victor about Katsuki?” Otabek bluntly asks, side-eying Yuri.

Yuri looks at Otabek, donning a dark suit and a form fitting green shirt that matches Yuri’s eyes with the top unbuttoned, and marvels that someone so handsome and normally so quick can be so slow.

“Other way around,” he replies as Victor picks up Makkachin and spins him in a circle, singing to himself.

“Is he making up lyrics to Katsuki’s free skate song?” Otabek wonders. Upon that realization, Yuri tries to grab Christophe’s flask, but Otabek throws a restraining arm across his chest instead.

This wedding hasn’t even started and it sucks. 

* * *

The ceremony is beautiful and emotional. No one cries harder than Victor, but Katsuki is a close second. His family just wants to party, vibrating in their seats. Phichit Chulanont sniffles at Yuuri’s side with Yuuko.

Amazingly, the ballet teacher glowers at Victor during the vows, painfully writing doom into his bones if he hurts her Yuuri. No performer can be so talented and so terrifying without knowing Lilia, and Yuri understands he should keep his distance. A few other people, like Yuuri’s former coach and Yuuko’s husband, follow her example, and Yuri respects them for it.  

Ironically, Makkachin is the best behaved.

Yuri clusters together with Yakov and Lilia in lieu of Victor’s family. Lilia’s makeup does not run, but her composure fails them both in the face of Yakov’s reaction, smiling widely and fighting back tears. Her shoulders are relaxed. As Katsuki signs his life away to Victor, Yuri notices his own hand tremble slightly. Otabek reaches over and intertwines their fingers.

“I always thought they’d return to the ice, that Katsudon would stay,” Yuri admits once the Nikiforov-Katsukis officially kiss. This is the end of an era, and Yuri only now accepts it, pressure crushing the remnants of his chest not overjoyed at their happiness. Otabek stands in front of him whenever he starts crying, equal parts selfishly sorrowed and proud of them.

They hold the reception at the ice rink, naturally. Somehow the dog wind up on the ice, but there isn’t anything about these assholes that shocks him anymore.

Otabek and Yuri weave around struggling skaters like Mari or drunken crybabies spinning around, literally half the damn skaters invited. Georgi seems to be leading them.

Minako performs a twirl next to Lilia, who laughs. Yuri looks up how to tell if a person has landed in alternative universe.

“That’s the woman who threatened Victor,” Otabek notes.

“During the wedding? Yeah, that was cool,” Yuri replies, distracted by his search.

“No, before,” Otabek presses his lips together into a small frown.

“Huh?” Yuri closes his internet browser.

“She and a few others showed up this morning while you were asleep and dragged Victor outside.”

“And they threatened him?” The fuck, he sleeps through the only decent part of this wedding besides their stupid happiness.

“Your friend Yuuko’s husband waved a shovel in the air while the woman detailed how they’d dig his grave. For some reason Celestino Cialdini was there. She had him hold the map of where they’d hide the body…” Otabek trails off, puzzled look in his eye.

“The dude was Katsuki’s old coach. What happened next?” Yuri isn’t sure if this is the greatest story he’ll ever know or if he needs to tell Yakov so someone threatens Katsuki for the sake of Russian honor.

“She claimed ‘His heart breaks, your spine breaks!’ I was still in the onsen, but she shouted that part loudly. Nishigori…” Otabek continues once Yuri nods that he has the name correct, “Nishigori then slammed the shovel into Victor’s hands. It might have been a gift considering there was a bow.”

“How did Victor react?”

“He jumped around and hugged them all. I felt guilty watching and turned away once I knew he wasn’t in danger.” Otabek shrugs.

Yuri snorts, “That asshole laps up anything that reaffirms he has to stay forever. His favorite type of conversation topic is on how beloved Katsuki is.”

“Is he beloved?” Otabek asks suddenly, sharp but not cruel. His body inches slowly away from Yuri’s, giving him space.

“Clearly, Beka. Did you fall asleep when the sobbing overtook them?” Yuri stares and considers opening a new internet search for head trauma.

“Is he beloved by you? A crush would be understandable considering how he treats you, ” Otabek says, not meeting Yuri’s eyes or uttering the phrase, ‘how _you_ treat _him_ ’.

Yuri feels bile rise up in his throat. “Of course not! Gross! It was a felony until I was legal. And disgusting otherwise. Look at him and his asshole husband.”

“I meant-”

“I don’t have _a crush_ on him. I just wanted him back to the ice. He was better, sometimes, like Victor, and I’ll always question if I measure up,” Yuri explains, as honest a truth he’s willing to offer the world or his first friend. This isn’t the time to sink his secrets into Otabek like he’s a wishing well to toss coins in.

Besides, this is the truth. Whatever Yuri feels for his Japanese counterpart, it isn’t a crush.

“There’s plenty to challenge yourself with right now. When you break their records, you’ll understand you don’t need to compete against them to compete with them,” Otabek sooths, voice deep and personal, just for Yuri. He wonders if Otabek is reminded of the years waiting for Yuri to join him. At the very least, he drops the subject.

Across the rink, Victor waves his ring in the air, other hand distracted by copping a feel of his husband’s ass.

“Remember what you promised. Kill me if I get that sappy.” Yuri despairs.

“They’re sweet,” Otabek counters.

“I used to think you were _cool_ ,” Yuri replies in mock disgust as he watches Yuuri lift Victor, balancing on his skates with ease. Ugh, they would practice pair skating for their wedding.

“It works for them though,” Yuri decides.

“What does?”

“Their choice to stay here.”

“Choice?” Otabek’s confusion is evident, and Yuri wonders how best to explain what Victor and Yuuri taught him, that coming and going is personal freedom, not a forced demand.

“They decided for themselves what they wanted. They went for it and it worked out and we can all choose our own course I guess,” he concludes lamely, repetitively, struggling with what to say and emotionally exhausted from the long day.

He and Otabek watch the others move around, dodge two of Yuuko’s kids (Yuri’s guard is up when he doesn’t have all three in his line of sight) before Otabek looks at him and offers, “Come to Almaty. There isn’t time this summer, but once the season ends next year.”

Yuri perks up but presents an alternative proposal, “Come to Russia. See my hell so you never make fun of me again.”

“Well, the winner should decide, and I ranked higher in our latest competition together.”

“Haven’t you heard of gracious winners?”

“Of course, but I’ve also heard how fierce the Ice Tiger of Russia can be when people go easy on him.”

Yuri bumps shoulders with Otabek, enjoying now barely classifying as shorter, and agrees, “Fair point. Winner of the Grand Prix picks where we vacation then.”

Otabek, haloed by the sunlight floating across the rink, smirks at him. A part of Yuri’s heart lifts at the sight.

* * *

**(Fall and Winter 2017)**

The bet is quickly settled considering Yuri doesn’t even fucking qualify. Otabek wins a silver at Skate America and a gold in the Trophée de France. Yuri’s gangly body, and the extra inches he seems to sprout whenever he passes out, earn him two bronze medals at Rostelecom Cup and Skate Canada. No one in Russia is particularly pleased by his placement but Yakov has the best perspective, guides him towards the European Championships and the Olympics. The guilt of defeat is unfamiliar but it is Yakov who reminds him of Victor’s difficult teen years, that reaching 5’6 by November and still medaling in two competitions is impressive. Lilia has _plans_ for him.

“How did you handle it?” Yuri demands as he devours his dinner and a generous half of Otabek’s the night after the Rostelecom Cup. Beka leaves in the morning but the buzz of satisfaction in having his best friend near is enough, especially knowing his coach suggested Otabek’s time was better spent on his own rink.

Neither acknowledges how little they care.

“By staying in Juniors until I stopped growing,” Otabek points out, sliding a salad across the table for Yuri to stab at.

“I want to light someone on fire.” Yuri steals all the tomatoes and bites down, hard.

Beka purses his lips and glances around before beckoning Yuri to lean towards his seat, a conspiratorial look in his eyes. Holy sht, Beka probably has a lighter and something for him to destroy. This is friendship.

“That’s horrible illegal Yuri,” he solemnly rebukes, tapping a knuckle against Yuri’s chin and starling a laugh out of him.

“No fires,” he continues. “You’ll never reclaim the podium from jail.”

“You don’t think I’d get away with it?” Yuri swallows another tomato and widens his eyes like he tried to do as a child, asking for another sweet.

“Let’s not find out,” Otabek counters. “Besides, someone will catch you on film.”

“Fucking fangirls,” Yuri swears, slumping over in his seat with the reminder.

“Didn’t Yakov learn you snuck off to Japan because of your Instagram?”

Yuri isn’t a tool, so he doesn’t spit his water across the table. He does crumple a napkin in his fist. “How do you know that story?”

“Victor Nikiforov.” Victor will burn to a crisp, his body disappeared to a Russian river.

“You can’t kill Victor,” Otabek reminds him, watching violence crossing Yuri’s mouth and eyes while he sips his tea.

Again, Yuri physically can’t fight the smile twitching behind his lips as Otabek reads him so clearly.

“Beat them for me,” Yuri settles on, finally remembering what brought them to this restaurant.

“Don’t make demands unless you’re traveling to Tokyo to watch.”

Yuri exhales, “I planned on it.” He surprises himself with how true the statement rings and Otabek, judging by the widening of his eyes. Regardless of his loss, he was going to follow Beka. And Mila, he guesses. One of them has to win this year.

“Besides,” Yuri adds, “Yakov thinks the break will be good for me.”

* * *

Yakov knows nothing. How is watching JJ Leroy take the podium worthy of his time? Otabek smiles for the cameras, his country’s flag wrapped around his shoulders, from the fucking bronze podium. Yuuri’s Thai friend took silver, barely two points higher than Otabek or that South Korean skater who hovered near Otabek in between performances.   

“I’ve barely said ten words to him in my entire career Yuri,” Otabek explains patiently while Yuri glowers at Seung-gil’s back as he brushes past them at the celebratory banquet.

Not for the first time Yuri pines for the annoying distractions Victor and Yuuri supply, but they’re vacationing in America, victims to the time crunch the upcoming Olympics had created against the season’s schedule. They should have skipped again but Otabek’s coach was prepared to have an aneurysm, and Yakov only let him watch if he promised to attend.

“I won’t get along with him,” Yuri vows, petty but unsure how to justify himself.

“No one ordered you to,” Otabek takes a sip of his drink and grimaces, offering it to Yuri. It’s too fruity, but Yuri has no qualms in swallowing whatever can help him forget this evening.

Unable to reply, Otabek seizes the opportunity and says, “Do you have a reason to hate him?”

“He’s a dog person,” Yuri supplies with confidence. His tie has paw prints on it and his social media accounts are compiled of dog videos and little else.

“So am I,” Otabek answers out of the corner of his mouth while the Crispino twins walk by.

Choking on his drink, Yuri stutters, “Shut up; that’s isn’t funny, Beka. Stop defending him. I know you aren’t a fan of his skating style.”

“You do?” Beka’s smiling for the first time since they arrived, and Yuri feels the world inch closer to rightness.

“You never brighten watching his performances.” Yuri would know.

“Too analytical,” he hums, agreeing.

“He’s looking over here.” _At you_ , Yuri refrains from accusing.

Otabek gulps and forcefully shakes his head at Seung-gil, who smirks from across the room.

“The hell?”

“IT’S JJ STYLE!” The pompous dick screams as he bursts through the doors, theme song playing over the loudspeaker his fiancee carries. She’s wearing the gold medal.

Yuri sees red and hisses next to Otabek, grips his shoulder, mirroring their behavior at Four Continents. Yuri _misses_ Four Continents when his body worked and Otabek’s eyes were on him.

Seung-gil’s placid face doesn’t look disgruntled enough over JJ’s arrival, and Yuri knows he’s right not to trust him.

Frantically, Yuri scans the crowd for Mila, gold bright around her neck, and finds her in the corner with the Italians. Tugging Otabek over, he successfully dodges JJ for most of the night.

Many drinks later, Otabek is corralled into photos by JJ. Yuri mouths “Fuck off JJ” once they try to wave him over, stubbornly digging into the carpet before he can be tugged over by Otabek’s firm arm. There’s loyalty but there’s also survival.

Treacherously, Mila, who he thought loved him and who he fucking came to celebrate, disloyally lifts him in the air and carries him over for pictures like he’s her personal teddy bear. He’s taller now. This shouldn’t keep happening. When the party ends, he’s going to call Georgi and ask if she’s ever dragged him around at full height.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you didn’t over-rotate on those damn quads,” Yuri argues across the gathering to Otabek, infuriated.

Michele Crispino declares, “You didn’t even qualify” positioned between Yuri and his sister, who herself stands next to Mila in the center of their group. He nods at Otabek, supportive.

Beka does not appear to appreciate the support. He mouths back, “Next time”.

Yuri’s going to hire a detective to explain what the fuck is going on, he swears it.

In the morning, Yakov buys him and Mila an extravagant breakfast, proud that they both went to the banquet and didn’t get into drunken escapades or dance battles with strippers for the first time in years. Lilia will be so proud to hear of this when they return.

Yakov’s dreams are small, and Yuri does feel a modicum of regret for his coach.

Otabek brings him to a cat cafe, reestablishing Yuri’s affections and sunny disposition. He hugs Beka tightly in the airport before they separate, fingers tight in his jacket and reluctant to release him.

* * *

**(2018: In Which the Noble Yuri Plisetsky Courageously Fights Bullshit Growth Spurts, Americans, and an Attraction to his Best Friend)**

**(January-February)**

Yuri won’t mourn the death of 2017 or his theme of rebirth, regardless of how persistently Yakov and Lilia claim it suits him. He’ll abandon it once March comes, happily. Home, Otabek’s program inspiration, fits him beautifully, clearly a love letter to skating and Kazakhstan. Yuri can’t look away as he glides across the ice, axels never more elegant, his arms flawlessly positioned. No one needs a lengthy, probing interview to understand the composition was originally designed for the Olympics and the season used to smooth out the errors and ill-timed jumps.

Competing in Olympic years suck though, with breaks between competitions shorter, the games sandwiched between the European Continents/Four Continents and Worlds. Dotingly, Otabek permits him to upload countless photos of their matching silver medals or snapshot memories of Otabek’s visits to Russia whenever his coach forced long weekends on his wary muscles in the weeks leading up to the Games.

“They’re paying him for this,” Yuri pronounces, carefully, awestruck as pages of Instagram load, all of which center on Yuuri at tourist attractions and posing with other athletes. He keeps scrolling as Otabek finishes washing up so they can explore Pyeongchang. He rented a bike.

Otabek grunts a short sound, brushing his teeth.

“Not Japan,” Yuri explains impatiently, for the second time. “Russia. Victor’s sponsored commentary for the Olympic games.”

Otabek hums again.

“I don’t know why. It’s not like he listened to them before,” Yuri tosses himself on the bed, spread eagle as more photos of Victor and his husband upload.

“Who are your roommates?”

“Snowboarders,” Otabek says, spitting in the sink. He rolls a shoulder in Yuri’s direction.

“ _Hockey players_ ,” Yuri utters in a tone better suited for _terminal diseases_ or _mass murderers_. “I’m coming here if they keep me up.”

“No murdering your countrymen.” Otabek’s laughing at him, Yuri can tell.

“They’re safe until they win.” Strangling them with their own medals and keeping his pristine is a suitable goal.

Grabbing his jacket, Otabek locks the door and they march down the stairs towards the exit.

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Otabek watching him in concern as he walks. “I didn’t fall that hard,” referencing an ugly slip out of a quadruple toe loop that happened in practice earlier.

“Alright.”

Once outside, they navigate the crowds with ease. Yuri can spot the rented motorcycle across a parkway when someone with broad shoulders elbows past him, pushing him against Otabek, who steadies him without hesitation.

“Fuck off jackass,” Yuri spits out in Russian, and again in English once he notices the confusion on the guy’s face. He’s carrying a hockey bag, and Yuri automatically loathes him.

“Sorry little girl,” Jackass responds, clearly unrepentant as he smiles at Yuri.

Otabek steps in front of him, and Jackass loses his grin.

Jackass may be taller, but Otabek is compact, and the shadowed glare on his face promises he’ll hit back with full force and no regards to injury. Yuri’s own scowl must guarantee a matching doom but Jackass seems more concerned with Otabek, backing away slowly before turning towards the hotel. Compellingly, Otabek is wearing a leather jacket instead of his Kazakstan blue and has both hands in loose fists.

“Hypocrite!” Yuri smacks his shoulder once they settle on the bike.

“I’m allowed to fight,” Otabek argues back, then accelerates the bike to a dull roar Yuri can’t shout over. He feels a pang in his stomach as Otabek’s biceps flex and bites the inside of his cheek in punishment for tolerating someone fighting his battles for him.

Otabek drives them to the restaurant Katsudon and Victor are holding court at with roughly ten other skaters, preventing Yuri from losing his shit on him for that earlier bullshit. He dodges Yuri’s anger once they return by stating, “After we perform.”

During his short program two days later, Yuri spitefully arches his spine during spins Otabek isn’t flexible enough to perform and only touches down once when his leg wobbles after a bad landing. He managed to get all the rotations in though and hears Victor cheering in the stands. He sulks at the kiss and cry, sandwiched between Yakov and Lilia. Watching his score tick in at over 100 points, Yuri keeps the scowl on his face and ignores Otabek, waiting for his turn on the ice. He spends the day suffering from the stomach illness known as the Nikiforov-Katsuki couple and their dining habits.

In the morning, after his free skate but before Otabek’s, Otabek grips his forearm and stares at him.

Yuri thinks of a hotel in Barcelona but keeps his mouth shut before he calls Otabek an asshole.

“Are you going to watch me or not?” Otabek’s eyes are laser focused on Yuri, the flecks of gold in them dazzling.

Helpless and confused because he just wants Otabek to talk, he whispers “Davai.”

The nod turns into a frantic clap and kinetic bouncing in his seat as Otabek leaves everything on the ice. Though this skate is for Kazakhstan, Yuri’s confusion is evanescent as he welcomes the feeling of home, of Otabek at his best. He sees the bar being raised, the expectations of the future in front of his eyes, a success separate from Victor or Yuuri’s abandoned legacy. This is challenge, and elegance, and a familiar, comforting power. Otabek is calling for him and the hollowness of Yuri’s heart, even as he breathes for his idealized, temporarily lost homeland.

Quietly, Victor hands him a handkerchief, and Yuri realizes he’s crying. The sniffling noise is lost to the crowd’s applause.

Unsurprisingly, Otabek lives up to his namesake and wins Gold, Yuri at Bronze by his side.

In the hotel room, while the hockey players are doing whatever hockey players do, Yuri cuddles up to Otabek’s chest, medals carefully placed in their boxes on the end table.

“You’re still a soldier,” Otabek starts, a hand pressed to Yuri’s back.

“No shit.” Yuri never needed reaffirmation his fighting spirit survived his growth, but Otabek’s the only guy who recognizes him as a warrior, so Yuri permits his weirdness.

“I don’t enjoy seeing you threatened, so easily baited” Otabek confesses, as if this was a life altering revelation and no the equivalent of the ice is cold, as if the reverse weren’t an inevitable, unquestionable truth.

“That was nothing,” Yuri replies, suddenly understanding this conversation has been a long time coming, begun every time Otabek pulled him back from an edge or rescued him from danger.

“You feel it so much deeper than I do, and I’ll always want to stop whoever threatens your dream, you abilities.” Yuri tries to turn around so his back no longer presses against Otabek’s chest, but his grip tightens around Yuri’s body until he settles back down.

“My dream is to fight my own battles,” Yuri replies, disgruntled.

“No, your dream is to win, and fist fights when your balance is in flux and your mental state precarious is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Otabek continues, “Soon, you’ll roar back, a true tiger on the ice, ferocious. No one will be able to touch you, harm you, bring you down to earth. The beginning is coming for you, and I want you to see it so badly Yura.”

“Beka?” Yuri’s voice is feather soft, his grip iron strong.

“Every setback you’ve handled with aplomb, with world defining determination, and I’m proud of you. I’m _waiting_ for you. But I worry that temper will distract you, force you down paths better left alone.”

He exhales, cutting off whatever response Yuri wanted to give, “You’ve been lashing out against people who cross you, the ice, the other skaters, your own body with no hesitation for nearly a year. I’ll never question your fortitude, your future, but please, Yuri, remember there are other ways to battle back. I don’t want my Yuri to be such an easy casualty.” A quiet silence settles in the room once Otabek’s speech concludes and Yuri puzzles out what he wants to say.

“Hey,” Yuri starts, nudging Otabek’s arm until he can turn around and stare him in the eye.

“Your concern is noted, and appreciated. But you need to have more faith in me. Other skaters are annoying and won't shut up, and I was fighting long before my growth spurts." Yuri pauses for a moment, knowing Otabek's oddly formed attachments with all their damn competitors will not blind him to the veracity of Yuri's claim.

"It’s impossible for me to consider a different path. Lilia claims versions of myself need to die for my success, and she’s right,” Yuri raises a finger to Otabek’s twisted lips before he can interrupt, desperate to finish before he changes his mind, “I change, not the path. But no matter what Yuri I turn into, he’ll always want you around to save him from the occasional fight he should have avoided.” An odd terror seizes his heart, and he shakes slightly with the weight of not stopping after the words _want you_.

“And the not so occasional fangirl?” Otabek murmurs unhappy but considering. Yuri laughs and nuzzles his nose into Otabek’s neck. Neither offers a comment on Otabek’s lips pressing against his hairline, repeatedly, until the hockey players nearly break down the door in a drunken stupor and Otabek leaves.

Otabek’s post Olympic update on Instagram is a shot of their medals nestled together on a pillow. He captions it _home_.

* * *

**(March)**

It snows when Otabek, drowsy, spills out of his plane and into Yuri’s impatient arms. If Otabek wasn’t barely stifling his yawns, Yuri would consider tackling him. Victorious in carrying the bag, for once, however light the duffle may be, Yuri excitedly describes the days he’s spent with Grandpa since he arrived in St. Petersburg for his birthday. He hands him the coffee he bought when the plane touched down.

“How long did Yakov yell at you for taking risks for showing off?” Otabek asks, gripping his coffee like a talisman.

“Almost as long as Grandpa did! But then he followed me to the ballet studio.”

“Where Lilia ordered you to stop?”

“Where Lilia kept me for two hours and kicked my ass.”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t thrilled."

“Grandpa was so impressed!” Yuri’s giggles bubble over, and he beams at Otabek. The heat of the coffee must be turning his cheeks a faint red.

“Your hair looks good,” Otabek tells him as he sips his coffee.

“Hm? Oh, thanks. You never saw it this short, right?” The front strands are barely past his ears.

“It looks like a hockey flow.”

“Funny. I should drop your bag in the mud.”

“But what will happen to your present?” Otabek teases, throwing his cup out as they walk out of the airport and into the waiting cab.

“You have it in here?” Yuri asks, looking for a zipper to pry open.

Otabek taps his hand and then grabs it. “I am the gift.”

“Eh, I’ve gotten worse,” Yuri kids. “Victor sent a bunch of custom made souvenir keychains with Yurio on them.”

“Did you burn them all at once or was it a slower process?” Yuri laughs across the seat of the cab, a solar flare of joy.

“Grandpa’s out for a walk. He’s in the spare room so you’ll have to stay with me overnight. Your flight is for tomorrow night, right?” He asks as he drops Beka’s bag on his bedspread. Vega doesn’t stir from her own bedding in the corner, disinterested in meeting Otabek despite Yuri demanding she be on her best behavior.

“Yes, Yuri. It has been since we’ve planned this months ago,” Otabek replies, eyes scanning the room. Frantically Yuri runs through a mental checklist to confirm he did the laundry, hid anything embarrassing.

“At least you’re here for today. Grandpa is excited to meet you.”

“Is he?” Otabek questions, rummaging through his bag.

“Of course! He’s wanted to since our first Grand Prix.” Yuri’s told him enough that Grandpa claims he already knows Otabek, but Beka doesn’t need to be informed of that.

“Good. Close your eyes.” Yuri complies and sits on his bed.

His eyes flutter closed. Yuri was joking earlier about the gift, but he’s not going to complain. A thin box is placed in his hands.

“Alright, open.” Beka stands in front of him, anxious.

Yuri looks down. Dark brown pawprints are located in each corner of a frame. Tiny kittens colored in shades of black, white, and gold make up the design of the borders. Behind the glass is a list in Otabek’s neat handwriting, many lines of various words and symbols Yuri doesn’t recognize. At the top, Yuri reads aloud, in crystal clear Russian, “Fuck Off, JJ.”

“I spoke to some of our competitors and found out how to curse out JJ, or anyone really, in their home languages. I recorded the correct pronunciations but I didn’t want to send the email until you owned it,” Otabek rushes out, after Yuri stares silently at the list in his hand for nearly a minute.

Somehow, he squeezes out in a shaky voice, “But you hate talking to the other skaters.”

“Not as much as you hate JJ,” Otabek replies hastily.

“Can I guess the languages?” Yuri asks, gently placing a finger against the glass, tracing it down the list.

“If you want?”

“This one is Kazakh! I think I’ve heard people screaming that at your house.” Yuri proclaims, excited. Otabek’s sister occasionally argues with her boyfriend in the background during their Skype calls.

Otabek offers a pained, “Yes. Yes you have.” Yet again, Yuri is grateful to be an only child.

“Is this Italian?” He stumbles over the pronunciation, oddly familiar.

“Huh? No, the next one is. That’s French.” Ah. Victor. Yakov used to demand he swear in a language the junior skaters couldn’t translate if he was going to complain about his hangovers so loudly.

“Oh, you had to talk to the incest twin Mila’s friend with, right?”

“No, Sara’s brother.”

"The male Crispino? Beka, you idiot, you shouldn’t have put yourself through that.” Beka did this for _him_?

“Are you crying?”

“No, fuck off!”

“If you’re going to swear at me, you can do it in something other than Russian.”

“Ugh.” Yuri wetly scoffs, unable to shake off how touched he is by the gift. Beka steps forward and he tilts his head to touch Otabek’s stomach. Beka’s hand smooths back his wild hair, rests on his neck.

“You do like it, right?” Otabek asks, once Yuri stops sniffling.

“I love it. I’m going to get in so much trouble next season. I can’t wait.” He pauses, “I promise not to tell Yakov or LIlia where I learned such filthy language.”

Beka exhales and affectionately cups his neck.

* * *

“Hello sir,” Otabek says, sticking his hand out when Yuri escorts Grandpa into Lilia’s living room. Yuri turned his back on him for two minutes and Otabek managed to change into a light gray sweater and brush his hair from the disarray of the plane. Amazing.

Grandpa’s face appears impassive, but Yuri knows something has amused him. He grips Otabek’s hand firmly. Only once Yuri and Grandpa sit down does Otabek follow them. Telepathically, he asks Beka “Why are you being weird?”

Grandpa’s firm voice fills the silence instead, “You’re the boy from that video from last year’s Four Continents and all the others.”

“Who showed you that? Was it Gregori from the poker games? Damn it, he keeps finding me online and showing weird things to Grandpa,” Yuri explains to Otabek, who sits as rigid as a statue on the couch. He nods woodenly at Grandpa.

“He taught me how to search online. You could have told me you can automatically track news of people, Yurochka,” Grandpa accuses.

“You have an alert on me? For how long?” Please let it be official channels and not whatever news his pain in the ass fans put out.

“Since the Olympics. But there was a website with a  ‘Best of Yuri Plisetsky’ article that showed me the videos you never mentioned.’ Grandpa seems proud, Otabek mildly concerned underneath his placid poker face.

Yuri didn’t mention those videos for a reason, typically because he’s cussing out half the subjects or threatening violence against the world.

Grandpa turns to Otabek. For once in his life, Yuri thinks “Here we fucking go” in relation to his grandfather.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Grandpa says, clasping Otabek on the shoulder.

In unison, he and Otabek gape at him.

“You’re wel, um, he can always handle himself but I’m happy to support him,” Otabek stutters out, and Yuri’s jaw hits the floor. When Grandpa blinks, Yuri pinches Otabek’s leg.

“Yura!” Grandpa rebukes. Turning to Otabek as he rubs his thigh, he asserts, “Tell me about your family.”

Obediently, Otabek discusses his father’s law office, his mother’s career as a math instructor. Every few questions he tugs at the collar of his sweater. Yuri’s too stunned to do anything but watch as Otabek answers whatever topic Grandpa lobs at him with the honed talent of a police interrogator. He’s always enjoyed letting others fill the silence, but this is _too much_.

“I told you he saved me!” Yuri whines when Grandpa asks how they met. He eyes Otabek balefully who considers him before nodding. Grandpa knows about Barcelona, but suddenly Yuri feels a rush of protectiveness about the memory of soldier eyes, a detail he never shared with anyone.

“Yuri tells the story better than I ever could,” Otabek reassures, looking at Grandpa expectantly for the next question. Yuri smiles in relief, so preoccupied with staring at Otabek that he doesn’t realize Grandpa’s gaze has turned to rest on him, considering.

Soon after, Lilia arrives home and Otabek hastily apologies for leaving before rushing out the door to help her with her bags. Grandpa nods him away.

“Gregori prepared me for a delinquent,” Grandpa tells Yuri, who hates Gregori so much. “But I knew my Yurochka’s good heart meant his boyfriend would be kind.”

A sharp pain spasms through the left side of Yuri’s body, and he wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like. “He’s not my boyfriend Grandpa,” Yuri hisses, concerned Otabek will return and hear them.

“Yurochka, I support him. There’s no reason to lie anymore.”

“We’re just friends,” Yuri squeaks. He feels all of seven years old, lying to Grandpa over how many hours he had spent at the rink, unsure he’s annoyed at the squeak, the memory of the lie, or that it isn’t a lie.

“Hmph,” Grandpa snorts as Otabek comes in with Lilia, carting in all the bags while she assesses him and critiques the movement of his leg as he nudges the door closed.

Next year they spend his birthday in Japan. 

* * *

Despite the embarrassment, Yuri’s seventeenth birthday will remain one of his favorites. Vega latches on to Otabek, as expected, and rubs against his ankles whenever he’s nearby. Grandpa bakes Pirozhki and shares childhood stories with Lilia and Yakov, who confesses to Victor’s antics and what Yuri and Mila have done since Juniors, laughing. Otabek absorbs the stories like a sponge and ignores Yuri lightly kicking at him under the table. A sudden snowstorm means he keeps Otabek, his new flight scheduled for the early afternoon two days later. They skate together before Yakov’s practice, chasing each other around the rink. Mila shoves a leopard print hoodie over his head but gives him space with Otabek after training. She blows a kiss in their direction as she leaves.

The following evening, Yuri awakens to notice Otabek is absent from his room, blankets from the cot askew. When he cracks open the door, he sees Grandpa conversing with Otabek in a soft, indistinguishable tone. He clasps a hand to Otabek’s shoulder. Yuri closes the door and cuddles Vega closer.

In the morning, Yuri says goodbye to both Grandpa and Otabek, each flying back while he’s at the rink. They pretend tears aren’t clumping his eyelashes together, that his grip on Grandpa isn’t hard enough to bruise or that his hand doesn’t keep reaching for Otabek despite the fact he’ll see him soon for Worlds.

Yuri never asks what Otabek and Grandpa discussed, but, in his twenties he finds a box of letters in Grandpa’s scrawl under Otabek’s bed in Almaty as he hastily packs for a flight. Yuri knows with aching confidence Grandpa truly did know his heart, even when Yuri was deaf to its call.

* * *

**(Summer 2018)**

It may be for the challenge or the heightened expectations, but Otabek always performs his best at Worlds, beating out Yuri for the silver. Appropriately, Giacometti wins gold in his final performance. Victor and the woman he now knows is Minako seemingly buyout a florist’s shop as they toss flowers on the ice Whatever, let the pervert ride off into the sunset.

Once his free skate concludes, Katsuki throws down a tiger in Japan’s white and red that is half his size. Considering his growth, everyone praises his bronze performance but only Otabek successfully cheers him up, renting a bike for them to explore Milan and indulgent of wherever Yuri wants to go. On a rainy night, they order room service and fall asleep on the separate beds of Otabek’s hotel room as shitty Italian movies play on the television. It’s the best sleep Yuri’s had in months, and he knows it comes from the lullaby of the light breathing on the other bed.

During the summer, he performs a token expression of independence, searching for an apartment away from Lilia and Yakov. Announcing his plans to move out leaves the taste of copper in his mouth, but he is clueless as to why. Yakov surprises their trio by laughing and promising to let Lilia and Yuri do as they see fit. Briefly, Yuri is concerned the stress of coaching has finally gotten to him, but if Yakov wants to be old and senile, they can’t stop him.

“I’m not waking up an hour early to deal with this stupid commute,” Yuri complains as he refuses a lovely apartment three miles away from the rink. The real estate agent frowns in confusion.

“Your neighbors have children,” Lilia states with distaste as tiny ankle biting rodents breeze past them as they walk down a hallway. The real estate agent spends their trip reassuring them of the soundproof walls but Yuri is disinterested, despite the view of the rink from his bedroom window and the quiet of his home.  

They both refuse to enter the building that isn’t pet friendly.

“Too expensive,” he argues of the cheapest apartment they have found.

“I did not invest so many hours in you for you to die in a death trap,” Lilia says, describing a stainless steel, newly designed and up to code kitchen. The real estate agent scoffs at her, and Yuri decides, if Lilia leaves anything but a broken corpse, he will fire him.

That evening, Lilia mentions, “Unfortunately, your agent was incompetent. Let this serve as a reminder to research people you employ.”

“Whatever,” Yuri scoffs as he places dinner on the table, room unpacked as he settles down to live with Lilia for another year.

Yakov’s smirk is disquieting and annoying.

In the midst of his apartment hunting, he takes a break and visits Japan. Equally unfortunate, JJ Leroy marries and dominates Instagram. Yuri would be ignorant of this event, and thankful of such ignorance, if Otabek wasn’t plastered on various social media platforms as a guest, huddling around a dinner table with that American skater Leo de la Iglesia.

“You wouldn’t come visit me in Russia for JJ’s wedding,” Yuri starts in their next Skype conversation.

“I told you I was traveling in May.”

“Travelling to JJ’s wedding! You barely tolerate JJ, and his wife is just as annoying. What the hell Otabek?”

“She loves him very much Yuri. It’s admirable.”

“Yuuri Katsuki skated his eros performance to a piece of meat when I first met him. Not all love is admirable!”

“What?”

“You didn’t even tell me about the wedding!”

“I want to go back to Yuuri Katsuki’s skat-”

“So do I, but here we are Beka, a world where you pick JJ over me.”

Otabek has the audacity to laugh.

“Don’t laugh when I’m pissed at you asshole!”

“Can we talk normally soon?” Beka sounds warm, amused, and Yuri is glad the phone hides the redness coloring his nose and cheeks.

He curses JJ and Otabek out in Spanish, Korean, and German. Beka _giggles_ like always when he goes multilingual.

“Why his wedding instead of staying with me?”

“I didn’t choose JJ over you. I never could. You pined for Japan before you invited me to Russia, and the wedding gave me a chance to visit old rink mates, including some in Canada. Most of my time was spent in California, where I met Leo.  If it helps, he isn’t a fan of JJ either.”

“Are you dating him?” What the fuck brain. God damn it. He then remembers Leo was in Beka’s earliest Instagram photos and congratulates himself.

Beka coughs loudly, and Yuri refrains from asking “Who’s being dramatic now?” but just barely.

“No, never,” he finally gets out.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Yuri hangs up, then immediately calls back.

“Why are there pictures of you getting fitted for a hamster costume on _his_ Instagram?”

* * *

In late June, Yuri doesn’t hop a plane to Almaty for nearly week. No, Otabek decided they’re going to _Thailand_ and the trip to Almaty is just the day until they fly out together for Phichit on Ice the following morning. The Altins are gone on business trips (the parents) or a girl’s weekend (the sister) so there is nothing in this country for him, _nothing_. Otabek just had to be earnest and wide eyed when he asked Yuri to join and god damn it all. He didn’t even force Otabek to beg. Now he has to wear a fucking hamster hat.

“If you take any photos of me in costume, I’ll never forgive you,” Yuri threatens as Otabek shoulders his bag through his apartment’s door.

“This is a recorded show Yuri,” Otabek reminds him, locking up behind him.

“No it isn’t!” Yuri’s eyes dart across Otabek’s face and upper body, looking for any indication that he’s joking.

Otabek stares back, unflinchingly. Fuck.

“I just won’t promote it on my Instagram,” Yuri says desperately, collapsing on a nearby chair. There’s two doors on the far side of the room, likely Otabek’s bathroom and bedroom. He faces a small kitchen with yellow walls and white and red counters. The living room itself is cozy. No television is in sight but the wall is lined with books and framed landscapes. Mama Altin bought and installed a trophy case in the center of the room, despite Otabek’s protests. In the corner, there’s a...crate with a swinging door that Otabek stands next to.

“What the fuck is that Otabek?” _That_ is a giant storm of white fluff running in a constant circle around Otabek’s hips, where his head reaches with ease. _That_ , once Otabek tugs at his collar and brings him to attention, has a blocky head and muzzle, wide chest, thick back, and long legs. _That_ is escaping Otabek’s grip to yip excitedly at Yuri, clamoring over the furniture to climb on his lap and lick.

The heavy paw pressing against his pelvic area is his excuse for the sudden wetness in his eye (god he hopes it isn’t dog saliva) as he winces.

“Aktos, get off him,” Otabek commands, but not firmly or with any haste to save Yuri’s life.

“You’re a dog person,” Yuri discovers, his proclamation stealing everything beautiful from the world.

“How is this a surprise?”

“Uff!” Yuri exclaims as dog presses another paw against him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

“I told you at the Grand Prix. I send you pictures on that app,” Otabek’s voice sounds faint, and Yuri can’t tell if merciful death is coming for him or if Otabek had the gall to walk away from him.

The dog, Aktos, stops licking him but lowers his head to Yuri’s chest, peering expectantly at his face. Yuri is not petting this damn dog.

“Beka!”

A dog bowl rattles from somewhere else in the apartment, and the dog leaves him with a final press of his wet nose to Yuri’s neck.

“How?” Yuri screeches, meaning an accusatory ‘How could you betray me like this? You were my savior. I adored you.’

Purposefully ignoring his subtext, Otabek rubs at Aktos’s side. “I asked my family for a dog every year when I was a kid, but once I began skating, it wasn’t very plausible,” he says, as if this was a damn tragedy and not a stroke of fortune considering this dog nearly killed one of them in the past five minutes.

“My parents thought to get a puppy when I returned to Almaty but a colleague of Mama’s passed away when Aktos was three and I had just settled in. It seemed fitting to share a new home together.” Otabek sounds too wistful.

“What?” He wheezes, flexing his hips to make sure nothing bruised and meaning ‘What the hell Otabek. What the hell.”

“What breed? I never cared to do genetic testing but he’s a mutt, likely with Tobet in him. They’re not always the friendliest type but he loves people” Otabek explains, guiding Yuri back onto the couch in the living room.  

“Is this a joke?” Yuri tracks the dog with suspicious eyes, watching him trot out of the kitchen, rummage through a box for a bone, and collapse at their feet.

“ _Yura_ ,” Otabek cautions. Aktos raises his head, and, under Otabek’s stare, Yuri pats his fluffy head.

Otabek stumbles out of his bedroom in the morning, the sky still dark,, shirtless but wearing dark maroon drawstring pants. Yuri nearly swallows his damn tongue. He crouches next to Aktos on the couch, holding his phone near the dog’s ear. JJ’s theme song echoes from the tinny speakers.

“His taste sucks,” Yuri argues. “Bark damn it! We’ve been over this.”

‘Don’t teach him to cry when he hears JJ’s music,” Otabek yawns as he paws at the coffee maker.

“Eyes on me, not him. Bark!” Yuri commands, restarting the song.

Aktos woofs quietly, and a glimmer of hope ignites in Yuri as Beka steals his camera to take a picture of them.

* * *

**(Winter 2018)**

Everyone Yuri’s ever fucking known is in this hallway. Lilia and Yakov are talking to another coach, and Victor’s mooning over his husband right behind him. Mila giggles with her Italian friend a few dozen feet away. If he had a vice, (besides blind uncontrollable rage the Victor in his head cheerfully mocks) he’d assume this was an intervention. Otabek would have warned him though, and he spots his friend cornered by JJ, hands wrapped around his pain in the ass wife.

Last month, at Skate America, Otabek claimed the definitive sign of Yuri’s maturity wasn’t his new height or graceful, long legs but that he can actually hear words whenever JJ opens his mouth instead of ‘Ride of the Valkyries.’

Yuri turned into the curve of Otabek’s neck and laughed before saying, “Wouldn’t it make an impressive choreography? Overthrowing a monarchy?” Age hasn’t changed Yuri enough that he wouldn’t envision crushing JJ as a story for the ice.

Unmoved, Beka questioned, “For the short program or free skate?”

Somehow he refrains from warbling out a confessed, “The long program is saved for you.”

The Cup of China concludes with a podium of JJ-Otabek-Yuri. He over rotated and touched down after a difficult flip near the end of his short program, and his free skate was solid, not spectacular. He and Yakov already have plans to work more on balance with Lilia. After missing out last year, his silver in America and bronze here are comforting enough, as are Otabek’s gold and silver. They’ll retake the Grand Prix together.

Days ago, Beka promised him a surprise once they finished skating, an odd look passing across his face.

“What kind of surprise?”

“It’s not a good one, for me at least.”

“Huh?”

Beka’s worrying mouth remained close-lipped despite Yuri’s pouting and prodding.

He moves forward to reclaim Beka from JJ so he can finally discover the secret when he hears someone spit out, “That ordinary Kazakh bastard isn’t worth the air he breathes. Do you actually believe anyone will remember him this time next year? Besides, he’s probably banging a couple of judges. Guys like that belong on their knees. No one performs a shitty program like that and wins silver. Hell, maybe he’s sucking his coach’s dick too.” The voice continues with slurs, and Yuri _ascends_.

Later, they will tell him the skater was Bradley Petrino, a low ranking American who only qualified due to Alex Hale’s season ending knee injury. He won’t remember that Petrino outweighs him by twenty pounds, has broad shoulder like Otabek’s, and floppy dark hair covering ugly green eyes. He won’t remember anything, even as he looks at the bruises in the mirror brought on Victor, Yuuri, and Otabek tugging him back. There will be blood underneath his fingernails, and even with the red liquid oozing out of his palm, he can’t be sure it’s his.

The video shows him this: his head tilts to the left, then the right, obviously attempting to the locate the source of the insults. His short ponytail bobs behind him. No one else hears Petrino, Otabek trapped by JJ, Victor and Yuuri flanking him but clearly distracted by each other. His fists clench, nails digging so deep into his own skin he draws blood. Suddenly he stills, successfully determining his target. His body turns, slowly, in increments, until he faces Petrino’s direction and darts forward. “Motherfucker, I will paint the walls with your brain matter!” He roars, alerting everyone to the danger. Fortunately, for Yuri’s career, but a blight to Yuri’s protective rage, Victor has the quickest instincts of anyone in skating, and yanks him back, wrapping two hands around the collar of his shirt. Swinging a fist backward, Yuri clips Victor’s chin and gets loose.

He tries to tackle Petrino again, who backs up against the wall, clearly unaccustomed to fighting if he boxes himself in. Lilia and Yakov race over, but it is Yuuri  who grips him by the arm and dodges his flailing limbs while Victor shakes stars from his eyes. “I’ll strangle you with this medal before you ever climb a podium,” Yuri screams, kicking at Katsuki’s knees until he’s freed.

In the background, someone is cheering wildly, the holder of the cell phone recording this horror and apparently the only other person who heard Petrino. Lilia is shouting, less pleased than the supportive man behind the cell phone. Various men are trying to contain Yuri’s blood-lust. At this point, Yuri’s threats are muddled, indistinguishable from the cacophony. Impressively, despite the noise, they can occasionally pick up a yelled ‘murder’ and ‘never find the body’.

After the last threat, Otabek Altin breaks from the crowd and grabs Yuri Plisetsky in a fireman’s lift, slinging him across his shoulders and behind his head.

Carrying a shrieking Yuri into a nearby bathroom, Otabek glowers at the cell phone and groans, “Really Papa?”

Aslan Altin shouts, as the bathroom door swings closed, “Be kind to my new son!”

* * *

“Do you remember our talk after we competed in the Olympics?”

Shaking with rage, Yuri barely stops his teeth from biting through his lips. “Otabek Altin, I’ll walk out that door and never turn back if you tell me this was a fight I should have avoided.”

“If you wanted to spend your season disqualified from competitions, why bother coming to China?” Otabek bites out, balling his hands into fists and tapping one against a sink.

“He had it coming Beka! You don’t know what he said.”

“Petrino? I can imagine.” Otabek presses his thumbs to his temples and rubs. He leans against the wall.

“Do you know that fucker?” Yuri measures the distance between the door and Otabek and starts plotting how quickly he’ll need to move to re-start the fight depending on Otabek’s answer.

“Soon after I arrived in California, his contact with the rink and our coach was broken. There was finesse in his footwork but overall his performance was flawed, especially his jumps. Once it became apparent he would only practice his strengths, not his weaknesses, he left for a new rink in Boston.” Beka exhales loudly but doesn’t turn away from Yuri.

“And?” Yuri gestures impatiently, prepared to fight through the crowd outside.

“And whatever he said about me, he also says about American competitors, especially Leo. I’m the foreigner, but they’re his unsupportive countrymen.”

“Then you should be thrilled I did something about him, finally.”

“When would I ever be happy if you were suffering on the sidelines, banned over a cartoon villain?” Beka frowns and continues to stare at Yuri, moving a hand to his cradle his cheek.

“The cartoon villain claimed you banged your way to the top,” Yuri fusses, but doesn’t shake Beka’s grip off.

“He’s returning to that argument, huh?” Otabek mood doesn’t seem frustrated so much as dully annoyed, a man complaining about a sudden, brief rain delaying him for a few minutes, not an international athlete and hero of a country insulted by an inferior opponent. It’s baffling, why Otabek ignores someone’s assumptions about his sex life...

“Did you date him?” Yuri screeches, shocked. He’ll commit mass homicide and then suicide if Otabek Altin’s taste is that poor.

“No, Yura.” Otabek’s face distorts as his nose scrunches up and his eyes narrow. Yuri considers that look of disgust a masterpiece.

“You’re lucky you didn’t actually hit him,” Beka starts after a moment of silence settles between them.

“I didn’t? Then why is there blood?” Yuri’s infuriated. He thought he broke that bastard’s nose.

“What?” Beka yanks his left hand forward, opens it to see crescent shapes in his palm, trickles of blood spilling out of a few of the deeper markers. Huh. That explains why his hand hurts.

Turning the faucet handles, Beka selects a lukewarm temperature and refuses to relinquish Yuri’s hand until the water starts washing away the red streaks. He doesn’t wince but tilts his body towards Otabek, who brings an arm around his back. Yuri’s nearly two inches taller than him now, but Otabek will always be the larger presence of the two in the quiet of a darkened room.

“I won’t apologize for this. I’d do it again.” Yuri states.

Otabek brings up his uninjured hands to cup Yuri’s head, stroke his chin and the planes of his face. Yuri can’t look away as Otabek states, with solemn warning and grip tight as a bowstring, “I choose what battles I fight. This wasn’t one of them. He didn’t deserve the attention.”

Yuri shoves him away in frustration, then reverses his decision, dragging Otabek ‘s face inches from his own with a death grip on the front of his jacket. Otabek’s hands linger near his cheeks.

“Your choices suck.”

“But they’re my choices to make. You’re the one who reminded me I could..”

“The one time anyone listens to me and it’s you over _a side comment on Victor’s stubborn ass choosing to stay._ Who listens to an emotional trainwreck at an obnoxious wedding?”

“Me, if there had been an emotional trainwreck at that wedding,” Otabek whispers into the small gap between them.

Yuri huffs, but they both know his frustration is waning the longer Otabek holds him. “Can’t you just thank me for defending your honor?”

“My hero.”

“It would mean more if you tried to be sincere.”

“Thank you for nearly sacrificing your career for a guy I realized wasn’t worth my time when I was fifteen. And for ignoring my concerns about your temper” Otabek quirks an eyebrow and runs a hand through strands of Yuri’s hair, still too short to be pulled back in a braid..

Yuri freezes. “What? You told me you didn’t date him!”

“I didn’t. I refused when he asked.”

There won’t be a recording to remind Yuri of this moment, the drip of water from the sink, the smell of cleaning supplies stacked in a corner. Sensory details won’t matter except for the stubble of Otabek’s cheeks, his chapped lips, the faint smell of sweat around his neck from his earlier performance. No one pries the the emotions from his mind, the doubt of failure warring with his unshakable faith that Otabek would have defended him with the ferocity of a bear if the roles were reversed, reacted in frustration because all he’s ever wanted is Yuri’s happiness, Yuri’s success. Yuri’s decision is natural, simplistic but also so complex, the weight of two years forcing his hand.

Yuri shakes Otabek’s hands off him, only to bring his own, tender and pained, to Otabek’s face, one resting against the attractive cut of his jaw, another winding around his neck to rub at the base of his undercut.

“Yura?” Otabek questions, displaced palm warm on Yuri’s hip and lips precious inches away.

“You’re mine. I claimed you when we were kids, with these stupid soldier eyes and I won’t let them have you. You’re mine. Okay? Mine. You need to realize it and so do they” Yuri presses his lips against Otabek’s, angles his head so he hits his mark, eager but as sweet as _possession_ will allow him.

“Yours, Yura,” Beka hums against his mouth, pulling him closer and pressing against him again, and again, and again.

* * *

**(February 2024)**

“I don’t expect you to move to Almaty until you retire.”

“You shouldn’t expect me to move at all! How could you consider staying? Skating opportunities in St. Petersburg vastly outweigh the ones in Kazakhstan. Beka, you know this.”

“What I know is that I choose Almaty, I choose family.”

“So you don’t choose me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this was a nightmare to edit. It was also written over like four days and has like fifty different themes. I hope you all liked something here. 
> 
> They’re going to make out for like twenty minutes until Victor kicks down the door, affronted Yuuri’s shin is bruised. That scene literally opens the next chapter.
> 
> A major update will come by the end of the month once I move back to college, and I’m very optimistic the story will be done by early March. Until then, I’m revising earlier chapters. Chapter 1 claims Yuri met the Altins at Worlds 2018 but a certain someone forgot the Olympics and wrote about it instead.
> 
> Yuri’s voice didn’t serve Phichit on Ice very well. Maybe I’ll do another side chapter of missing scenes in Otabek’s POV? 
> 
> For those curious about my process, I wrote the kiss before the wedding, Almaty, or the Olympics and spent the revision process worried it wasn’t earned. Someone guess what was written last.
> 
> We’re taking a break from 2024 Almaty. The vague Otabek-Yuri Feb 2024 showdown will eventually appear but spans major issues that need to happen first. I (poorly) laid the foundation for some of those conflicting themes here.
> 
> Speaking of 2024, the fact people tolerate the volume of OCs I throw in their path is shocking. Thank you all for that, and your fondness for Altin, Alexi, and especially Dmitry. I personally realized I was in too deep this chapter when I thought to myself, “Alexi would never say that”. Some of you have talked to me on tumblr about them, and it makes me lose my damn mind every time. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Prompt/Talk to me. I normally post parts of the chapter on tumblr first if anyone ever wants peaks](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Updated Timeline](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/post/154659055298/timeline-for-soldier-boy-minor-spoilers/)


	6. it changed the meaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri realizes actions have consequences. Not all consequences are true love and Yuuri Katsuki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re still here after the long wait, I am so damn sorry. I had a hellish winter/spring of completing a thesis, a comprehensive exam, and PhD applications and had to step away from everything. I used summer to relax and not write for the first time in years. I’ve moved for my PhD program and am doing super well and here to kick some ass. And apologize a million times.
> 
> This chapter was never intended to be so serious or such a complex, long wait. Yet, as I stayed away, I realized I wrote myself into a corner with Yuri’s wrath and need for retaliation. Otabek, in my writing, isn’t just a reaction point but the reaction point in Yuri’s emotions. At this point, he’s still a teenager going through a crucible. I’m not sure if I regret the ending of the last chapter, but I’m hoping to use the idea of throwing away ice skating for your beloved as a connection between Yuri and Victor in 2020 as the Otayuri relationship destabilizes. And honestly, this isn’t a realistic show so forgive the unrealistic decisions.

  **(2018: In Which the Noble Yuri Plisetsky Courageously Fights Bullshit Growth Spurts, Americans, and an Attraction to his Best Friend)**

**(Fall/Winter 2018-Early 2019)**

Eons later, a tongue slides against his, and Yuri squirms excitedly.

Victor slams open the door, an overdramatic petty asshole. He seems momentarily stunned by their mussed hair and clothes, Yuri’s reddened lips, and the shine of Beka’s eyes.

“Back off, we’re busy!” Yuri shouts, and then internally screams when his voice cracks over the word ‘busy’.

“Clearly. But Yakov’s threatening to leave you behind in China. More importantly, you need to apologize to Yuuri. You bruised his shin,” Victor accuses, priorities clear as day, like normal, even if his skin looks unnaturally pale. There’s something off about his voice, something unsettling that Yuri can’t detect.

“When did I beat up your better half?” Yuri asks, sending a questioning glance at Otabek’s way, who looks confused by his confusion.

“During your expression of passion,” Otabek suggests, probably dazed from their earlier acts. Yuri will exploit this weakness with mercenary effectiveness as soon as possible.

“Huh?”

“When you fought off your coaches, us, and bystanders as you struggled to kill the American.”

“I don’t remember that part.”

“Of course you don’t. A bad memory is a Russian trait,” Yuuri notes from his position in the doorway, unsmiling and grim. “If it helps, Otabek’s father filmed it.” His expressions brightens briefly as his fingers caress Victor’s nose, and he melts against his husband. Shameless. Disgusting. The pride of two nations.

“Your father’s here?” Victor isn’t the only one who knows his priorities.

“Surprise?” Otabek offers. Yuri smacks him, hard, and feels the faint throb of a kiss mark on his neck.

“The Altins are waiting for you,” Yuuri addresses Otabek, before turning to Yuri and ordering, “Say goodbye and get ready for dinner with us.”

“You’re not my handler old man,” Yuri grits his teeth, lobbing the name reserved for Victor at his husband’s feet, a curse and a complaint.

“Now.” Unwilling to flinch at the harshness of Katsudon’s tone and perplexed by the tight expression of Victor’s face, Yuri feels Beka lay an arm across his shoulder and places his own against Beka’s back.  
Side by side, they exit, and Yuri regrets nothing.

That soon changes.

* * *

When it comes to his personal life, Yuri trusts two people: Grandpa and Otabek, unshakable bedrocks.

Though swallowing glass shards is easier than admitting it, Yuri knows Victor and Yuuri love him in their own asshole way, but god if they aren’t the worst even when trying their best. Death would be preferable to them sometimes, honestly.

But in skating, Yuri’s lodestars are Yakov and Lilia.

Yakov is not necessarily a quiet man, has never been in the years Yuri’s known him. Though it is clear to all where Victor’s histrionics were lovingly inherited from, Yakov nevertheless maintains a level of dignity and composure. He knows the ice more intimately than some know how to breathe, has dodged and blocked the bureaucracies of the sport longer than Yuri’s been alive, longer than Yuri’s parents have been alive.

Lilia is the most terrifying woman he’s ever known, a marble statue, an ice queen who never skated. He has seen her melted though, moved to tears, to indomitable wrath, or refrozen chilly winter moods. His spine was torn apart by her dainty hands and manicured claws and recreated into whatever form they decided he needed to bend into.

Together, they’ve curbed his uglier impulses, dragged him into meetings about paperwork, about International Skating Union regulations.

Today, hours after kissing Otabek and banished to dinner with a frantic Victor and Yuuri who nearly took his hand off whenever he reached for his phone, he sees them anew.

These are the people that will end his life.

Yakov and Lilia sit across from him on the adjacent hotel bed, grim reapers incarnate. Yakov is silent, calculating as if he was standing on the edge of the ice during a performance, but neither the pride nor quiet respect Yuri has long been accustomed to are present.

Lilia looks tired, disquieting in the loose hair of her bun and the lines on her face. Her posture is slouched, like the weight of his incompetence has proven too much for her steel spine to support.

“In what universe,” Yakov intones, “did I ever indicate attacking a fellow skater, much less a fellow skater during a competition, was appropriate behavior.” This is not a question but the first line of an opening statement in the trial of Yuri Plisetsky.

“In what universe did I ever tell you to ignore everyone in your life who cares about you and your skating in a mad dash to assault someone? In what universe did I teach you to potentially throw away your career, your sponsorship, and the decades of sacrifice that came before you and continued in you, undertaken by myself and your family? Above all, in what universe did I coach you to risk such harm to yourself in attacking a man who easily slam your head against a door?” He stares at Yuri during this speech, unblinking, unmoving. Lilia sits still by his side, a facsimile of cracked composure as her hands ball into fits and dainty wrists shake slightly.

There’s an element of tragedy in Yuri Plisetsky, one that has dogged him for years (will continue to dog him in the crash and burn relationships with the loves of his life named figure skating and Otabek Altin) in how he cannot cannot get out of his own way. A more encompassing moment of this simple, sincere truth will never be more apparent than Yuri foolishly opening his mouth to complain, against his better judgement, “Technically I never touched him.”

Yakov stills Lilia’s hand before she can unclench her fist, and Yuri wonders about how closely he dangles on the precipice of being struck by the woman who dragged him home more times than he can recall.

“Failure to harm doesn’t negate intent to harm,” Yakov continues, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, tired and old as he looks at Yuri.

“The asshole claimed Beka slept his way to the top of the podium!” Yuri erupts, throwing himself off the bed he’s perched on to pace the room. “And he’s been fucking accusing people and trying to touch skaters for years but sure, I’m the problem!”

“Do not,” Lilia hisses, her voice a lightning strike to his nervous system, “justify your bloody palm prints on the walls because you couldn’t ignore slander. The rink, the competition, we have taught you better than that. You come to us, or at the very least Victor. Did you think about how attacking him could ruin your career? How a hit from him could ruin your body?”

“You’d have done the same!” Yuri kicks at his bed in frustration, petulant gaze honed on Lilia, looking at her balefully under his eyelids. The asshole didn’t even get a chance to swing back at him so Yuri has no idea what Lilia’s so worried about. He’s fine.

“I’d have listened to my coach, not thrown my efforts way!” Lilia parries, Yakov’s hand a clamp around her wrist. “I taught you to dance, not throw a pitiful excuse for a punch.” Yuri hates this conversation. He feels like he’s standing on uneven ground, arguing one thing as Lilia and Yakov focus on another.

“Bullshit! You’d have killed him quicker than I wanted to. What does it matter? I didn’t touch him, and the bastard deserves what I wanted to do.” Yuri pulls at the ends of his hair in frustration, pushing it behind his ear.

“He might,” Yakov agrees, before Lilia can respond. “But you are his competitor, his fellow skater, and a child. You are not responsible for the delivery of wrathful judgement because he insulted your boyfriend.”

“Don’t assume us ignorant of that trigger either,” Lilia adds, though the subtle downward quirk of her lips, one that always came when she regretted a comment, followed.

“Otabek isn’t a trigger!”

“Otabek is not the focus of this conversation. We’ve spoken to his coach and the Skating Union about Petrino. He will face the consequences of his actions. But what of yours Yuri? Are you prepared for the punishment and loss?”

“Huh?” Yuri stills, suddenly aware of how close the walls are the room are, the way Lilia and Yakov block the exit. “But I didn’t do anything wrong!” He doesn’t recognize the panicked tone as his own.

A glimmer of sympathy appears in Yakov’s eyes, and Yuri is reminded that this man raised Victor, knows the pain of seeing a child act without thought, touch a metaphorical stove and express shock at being burned. Not all consequences are true love and Yuuri Katsuki.

Lilia’s palms are no longer bunched together and now rest gently against her lap. Her back is a straight line as she surveys Yuri up and down with a critical glance. With quicksilver reflexes, she stands up and drags him into her arms. He does not flinch when she places a hand against his hair and says, “We will deal with this, and then, if you ever worry me again, I will bury you underneath the floorboards of my studio.”

He is unsure why that comment sooths him enough that his panic momentarily ebbs away, even as she releases him to the firm grip of Yakov’s hands on his shoulders.

(When he’s in his mid-twenties, Yuri visits Lilia and asks, “Do you remember the Petrino incident?”

Lilia doesn't spare him a glance, engrossed in a video on her phone. "Proof that parenting is its own reward."

Yakov grimaces, long-suffering and hiding behind a newspaper as Yuri whines, mildly offended.)

* * *

It takes him the better part of the week to crawl out of the hellscape of meetings, lectures from Lilia, and inquiry boards on the assault. His season is over, but so’s Petrino’s after other skaters came forward to discuss his harassment and commentary, along with various pieces of footage that supported the claims.

The narratives are simple in their complexity. Yuri Plisetsky martyred for confronting Bradley Petrino’s harassment at great personal and professional cost. In a future where the shards of his shattered universe aren’t tripping him up at the ankles, Yuri will reflect upon the masterclass that is Yakov and Victor in media manipulation, in the stories put forth and the careful editing of Otabek’s father’s video that emphasizes Petrino’s words and eliminates the most vile of Yuri’s threats. There are lawyers and contracts and sponsors that surprisingly don’t disappear once the news hits, cognizant of how the news is being received, the victimhood of Yuri’s sacrifice. Lilia looms, ice queen sharp, at his side as they consistently refuse comment on anything but how graciously he accepts the Skating Union’s decision. Quietly, many of his competitors who liked Otabek gain respect for Yuri, and have largely accepted his temper as part of his personality.

Yet this isn’t the future of careful metacognition but the present of his broken dream, his broken heart.

“Yura.” Otabek’s voice is soft over the phone when Yuri shares the ruling over the end of his season.

“Don’t.”

“You shouldn’t have done this,” Otabek continues, and Yuri pictures him leaning against a wall, eyes closed as if he too is suffering from a tension headache. Maybe he is.

“Shut up. I told you I don’t regret it, remember?”

“It’s easy to make promises before you know the result of your actions,” Otabek reminds gently. The past week’s taught Yuri that lesson all too well.

“I still don’t regret it,” Yuri says, firm but not unkind.

Their calls get increasingly shorter.

Yuri doesn’t meet his parents, banished back to Russia, seemingly for evermore.

* * *

“I still don’t regret it,” Yuri said.

It’s a lie.

How can you tell one of the people you care for most that you regret defending them, regret what it cost as your bones twist inside out in grief and fear.

It isn’t a lie.

When his bedroom is quiet but for the purr of his cat, a poor substitution for the warmth Otabek brings to his life, Yuri would veraciously and visceral defend Otabek from the harassment of a dozen skaters, damn the consequences.

It is a lie.

He thinks mournfully as he watches videos of Mila practice for the Grand Prix and curls up against Grandpa.

It isn’t a lie.

Grandpa holds his face between his hands, gentle iron that Yuri cannot hope to escape from as he’s looked over in concern.

“I’m proud of your heart,” he settles on.

It is a lie.

It isn’t a lie.

It is.

Yuri watches videos from all the competitions, rewinds and forwards Otabek's until he can complete the entire routine from memory.

He's pining.

He's grieving. 

He wonders if everyone can see it, if that’s why Victor is kinder, Yakov less demanding, Lilia more demanding, Mila more determined and Katsuki less in dragging him out of his house. If it’s why he and Otabek have so many stilted conversations despite what happened between them.

Fragile, handle with care.

Yuri wants to scream. Or punch something. But that’s what got him into this situation in the first place.

* * *

Time passes as Otabek prepares for the Grand Prix. Yuri wonders if his involvement would have earned him a medal, would have earned Otabek one in a different color.

He avoids those trails of thought for a reason, he remembers, as he spends hours working out to the point of exhaustion in the days of the Grand Prix. Yuri will pull something if he doesn’t control himself, but Yakov is away with Mila and Victor in Japan. It is up to him to press the pause button, and he never refuses.

The tightness of his muscles is easier to focus on than his pathetic heartsickness, uninvited to the competition by Otabek. They don’t talk about what happened, outside the storage room and inside as well, a victim to the silence.

There are three people in their dynamic, now: Yuri, Otabek, and Petrino. Yuri’s unable to chase away the ghost on his own, Otabek’s eyes and mouth too sad to help as he places the guilt on his own broad shoulders, despite Yuri’s complaints and annoyance that it wasn’t his fault.

Otabek brings home a silver medal for their troubles, and Yuri wants to know what he has to sacrifice to God so JJ stops beating his...boyfriend...if his skating is not enough.

He thinks they’re boyfriends. It’s a process that neither seems willing to define, when they actually, rarely, manage to talk of substance.

Eventually, Mila puts them all out of their misery, because someone has to.

“If you won’t fix this,” she announces to him, spritely, upon returning from the Grand Prix, “I’ll teach you two how to have feelings the right way.”

Maybe it’s the trauma of watching from the sidelines, or maybe it’s the desperation as he loses Otabek while holding him, but Yuri refrains from his first five choices of response about her capabilities before settling on, “Otabek doesn’t like alcohol.”

Mila pounds a fist against the barrier of the rink. “We’ll fix that too!”

“Do nothing and say nothing, hag.” The complaint is startlingly ineffective as Mila reaches over with a familiar placement of her arms to deadlift him into the air, his screech a well known echo to the rink.

Two days later, a bedraggled and exhausted Otabek is deposited on Lilia’s doorstep with little fanfare.

Yuri gapes. In the back of his head, he hear’s Lilia’s rebuke about grace and propriety.

“How?” The question trails off, Yuri not sure what he wants to ask.

“I don’t know,” Otabek offers, confused and blinking slowly in the morning light.

“What did you do?” Yuri yells accusingly at Mila, standing to the side with an expectant grin that disappears from her face as he turns on her.

“He’s sober!” She protests.

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?”

“Why is he here?” Yuri asks, pointing towards Otabek. To his credit, Yuri isn’t ignoring Otabek’s role in this. Unfortunately, Otabek cannot speak for himself, too preoccupied wondering if he lost control of his life when he first met Yuri in Russia or if Barcelona was the beginning of the end

“I brought him over to fix things. You’re welcome,” she sniffs.

“DID YOU KIDNAP HIM FROM ALMATY!”

“His coach knows where he is. I left a note.” She sounds mildly offended by his lack of faith, like the note is what he’s questioning.

“Papa put me on a plane,” Otabek contributes, finally. In an act of strength, Yuri refuses to be distracted by his shoulders or stubble or the fond way he peers at Yuri through his exhaustion.

“See!”

“How did you get my father’s number?” Otabek asks Mila, who smiles at him sunnily and offers no real response.

“YOU CALLED HIS FATHER?”

“Someone had to.”

“No they didn’t.”

“You’re not good at communicating Yura.”

“What does that have to do with his father?” Yuri hears a knocking but ignores it to glower at Mila.

“He wants you to communicate as well. Don’t you realize Otabek is as upset as you are?”

“Did his father tell you that?”

Mila nods. “He seems wonderful,” she says, faithfully, prepared to defend her new friend.

“Mila Babicheva. Yakov expects you at the rink soon. Be off. Yuri, do not engage in screaming matches on my front steps,” Lilia’s voice cuts in, and Yuri turns to see Otabek’s shadow walking through the halls, likely to collapse in a spare bedroom.

Yuri waits cautiously in the house, a specter of the halls near Otabek, internally damning Mila to the pits of hell and back.

When he finally wakes, there are pillow lines on the left side of his face, and his hair is mussed.  
“Hello,” Otabek whispers, staring distantly at something past Yuri’s shoulders. Turning to look, Yuri doesn’t see Lilia or anything at all. Beka just can’t look him in the eye, and that’s just fucking great.

“Stop being an asshole,” he huffs. Yet he fails to cross the distance between them, lean into Otabek’s arms like he would have before they kissed, before he kissed his season farewell.

“Sorry,” Otabek whispers, again.

“No one else is home. You don’t need to be so quiet.” But Yuri knows that’s not why Otabek is soft voiced.

“How are you?” Otabek says. He winces like he regrets the question immediately.

“Fine.” Yuri’s still too inexperienced to know how to ask Otabek to be brave for him when it doesn’t relate to the rink, wishes he could perform his own Yuri on Ice to express himself, but it’s just them, on the ground, and he’s not sure the ice holds a solution.

“Good.”

“Stop being an asshole!” Yuri snaps. “I’m a soldier, not a doll.”

Georgi used to leave romance novels and fairy tales in piles of litter on the changing room floors, looking for inspiration. Mila occasionally picked a random one up and read quotes aloud for them to mock. Frequently she’d collapse against a chair and act out a skit a la Georgi’s skating, mimicking the idea of seeing someone for the first time. That romance is not Mila’s style considering she beats up hockey players who displease her.

But, seeing Otabek look at him anew, Yuri shamefully realizes the concept is now part of his story.

Otabek moves forward to kiss his cheek, sudden and with flushed cheeks.

“My solider.”

If Yuri’s fatal flaw is an inability to get out of his own way, a younger Otabek’s is a weakness for a moody Yuri, an insatiable need to comfort and reassure his soldier boy, no matter what must be put aside.

(A retired Otabek’s weakness is still an insatiable need to comfort and reassure, but Yuri doesn’t need a partner to run and fight his battles for him, and that’s his cross to bear.)

“My stupid Otabek.”

“Yours Yura,” Otabek agrees lightly, “Remember?”

Yuri throws himself into waiting arms, delighted.

* * *

 “You should have invited me to the Grand Prix,” Yuri confesses to the darkness of his bedroom. Otabek’s hand momentarily stills in his hair before de-tangling to rub Yuri’s neck.

“I expected you to show up regardless,” he admits.

“Yakov thought I’d be a distraction to the other Russians and get harrassed by reporters.”

“You listened.”

“Have you forgotten how closely he and Lilia came to killing me?” The hand against his neck stutters but doesn’t stop.

“I’m sorry I didn’t win gold for you.” Otabek’s arm circles Yuri’s waist, drawing him closer.

“You’re not those assholes in Japan. Win gold for yourself.” Underneath his harsh words, Yuri can’t ignore the thrill of pleasure thinking Otabek wanted to win for him.

They’ll be okay now that Otabek’s back to himself and remembered how to act for Yuri.

* * *

 Yuri stares at Mila. “Your only idea to ‘fix’ us was to put us in the same place?” He’s awestruck and horrified.

“It worked.” She shrugs, unconcerned.

* * *

**2019: In Which Yuri Attempts to Control His Temper and Complete Tasks Expected of a Functioning Partner**

“You should come to Almaty,” Otabek announces during a video chat in January. “My parents want to meet you, officially.”

Choking on a roll, Yuri thinks fatalistically, here lies Yuri Plisetsky, not killed by Lilia or Yakov or by his own hand after dealing with Victor, but by a piece of bread.  
  
Waving a hand at Otabek’s concerned look, Yuri swallows and gasps a breath of air.

“We tried that already,” he offers lamely, a rare reference to that asshole. Neither one disagrees that Yuri was right to avoid meeting the parents when running on no sleep and under the watchful control of Inquiry Boards deciding his fate.

“Papa still speaks fondly of you for what happened,” _to my consternation_ goes unsaid, “and he and Ylena are anxious to finally have in Almaty for dinner.”

“Your father wants to join my fan club,” Yuri points out. He’s still bitterly enraged (and his sponsors relieved) that the incident has only earned him more fans and attention, not less.

Otabek groans out “Yes, yes he does,” from deep in his throat.

“Your mom-”

“Mama will love you as much as I do,” Otabek cuts him off hastily.

“It doesn’t matter. Until the season ends, I’m on a leash here.” Deep in his bone marrow the realization he’s on thin ice and needs to listen to his Grandpa, Yakov, and Lilia has settled.

“Yakov let you visit Japan a few weeks ago.”

“Yakov sends me to scout Victor’s happiness and because he trusts them to destroy me if I make ‘unwise’ decisions on and off the ice. No one ruins a life like Victor!”

Otabek lets out a quiet huff of laughter, and Yuri barely controls his preening.

To be fair, Victor was also the only one to give him a gift while he spent every day on the receiving end of Lilia’s ire and Yakov’s punishing routines for the early competitions of next season. Victor located an atrocious timepiece from a specialty store in Tokyo and thought of Yuri because the face resembled a cat if you were half blind and stupid. Truly, there’s never been an uglier mess of wires and gears barely contained within a short rectangular box, but, in this case, Yuri realizes it is the thought that counts, especially when Victor forgets anyone not named Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov draws breath.

Victor isn’t always the worst.

“Alright. What if I prove myself and win gold at Worlds? Do you think they’ll support a visit then?”

“You will win gold,” Yuri argues, tone allowing for no disagreement. “Besides, Grandpa and Yakov think you’re a good influence. But visiting you is a reward and I’m forbidden those! Beka, it’s not fair! The Skating Union punished me enough.”

“You’ll make them regret it when you supernova the competition,” Otabek sooths, belief firm in his voice.

_When he’s older, when they’re both older, Otabek and Yuri look back on the miscommunication and the crossed signals that define the latter part of their relationship. Not enough time is spent on enjoying the early moments, the times Otabek finally moved past anxieties and believed Yuri saw his value. Not enough time is spent on the way Yuri so quickly displayed his heart for Otabek, in all its inconsistencies and fierce love. They argue about their future so often, they forget that, once upon a time in their history, they were two boys feeling accomplished Yuri could talk about the most difficult experience in his life with Otabek, that Otabek could stop himself from trying to take the blame on his shoulders._

* * *

**(Spring 2019)**

“Do you want to tell people about us?” Otabek asks one day, a question they honestly should have addressed last year but were too busy sulking in their respective countries to confront. He’s three weeks away from Worlds and refuses to show Yuri any new aspect of his routine.

Yuri wants to nod frantically and begin uploading an onslaught of videos online to show off his Beka. He hesitates instead, slowed by the poorly hid grimace crossing Otabek’s face and the images of Yuri’s Angels commenting on every single picture of Otabek in existence.

“Do you?” His voice does not crack.

“Of course I do Yura,” Otabek rushes out, concerned. “But I want to wait until the summer. There won’t be much press coverage, and we won’t be harassed by reporters for comment on us or your suspension. There will be enough of that as soon as we compete against each other.”

“You’re right. Besides, I need to update all of your social media accounts,” Yuri says, trying for light, not dismayed or dissatisfied at how long it will take to show the world they belong together. Mila’s recent teasing hasn’t helped either.

“I don’t remember the password to most of them.”

Never mind. He’s not ready to show off a boyfriend with such a limited tool set.

* * *

Otabek has never been more powerful, Yuri thinks fondly, watching from the sidelines as Otabek glides onto the ice at Worlds, crowd almost an enraptured as he is the moment the music for his short program begins. It’s heavy on bass and crescendos and appeals to every part of Yuri’s overdramatic soul.

He’s glad to be here with Otabek and the competition after his self-imposed (coach imposed) exile away from the glare of the lights and camera flashes. Maybe it’s the desperation for stabilization and next year’s victory, but Yuri even nodded at JJ and his wife without annoyance. One of Otabek’s coaches watch him warily from the corner of her eye, but Yuri ignores it with practiced ease.

There is no universe Yuri can image without Otabek on the ice, without Yuri enthralled as a competitor, a kindred spirit, a boyfriend. The crowd and judges agree as he ranks in second place for the following day of competition. Yuri beams at the kiss and cry and ignores the mocking voice in his head that sounds like Victor during Yuuri’s final skating season.

“You’ll win,” Yuri tells a sleeping Otabek.

And he does as Yuri commanded, like usual. 

Otabek fooled most of the men and women in Yuri's life. They looked at him and saw responsibility, persistence, all the virtues of hard work and humility. Lilia and Katsuki saw him and thought, fairly, trainwreck and whipped. 

Unfortunately, Otabek breaks the hearts of countless teenage girls (and boys) and Yuri's family in one fell swoop, clutching his gold medal in one hand and Yuri's neck in another, drawing him into a messy kiss in front of the cameras he was so worried about. Yuri is crying and pretending he's not with little success. 

"I did it for you too," Otabek whispers hoarsely in his ear, and Yuri can't find any ire to complain it was supposed to be all Otabek's when he knows he'd have done the same if he lost Otabek for half a season. 

"You're not good at keeping secrets," Yuri whisper shouts back over the flash of cameras, kissing him again. 

"Huh," Otabek says, as if kissing Yuri and choking himself with a gold medal on television wasn't the key to keeping this thing secret. 

* * *

**(Summer 2019)**

Yuri exhales and wonders how to ask the question without showing his nerves for his upcoming two weeks in Almaty.

Otabek watches him through the screen and, after Yuri’s few aborted attempts to bring the subject around to the Altins, says, “Do you want to know about my family?”

“Sure,” Yuri replies, cooly. It isn’t cooly but no one has the heart or awareness to acknowledge that. “If you want to talk about them.”

Otabek hums noncommittally. Honestly, it’s a mystery of the universe that Otabek’s parents haven’t met Yuri besides the disaster in the hallways or in brief moments after Worlds, his father bright eyed, thrilled, his mother remarkably unimpressed by the situation but clearly doting of her only son. Yuri isn’t sure if this is proof there is a god or not. He’s missed the firing squad but only to rejoin them on their turf.

They both know he can outwait Yuri, so he swallows a sliver of pride to ask, “What is your father like?” He’s good at getting women to like him. Yuri isn’t confident with fathers.

“Boisterous,” Otabek settles on, after a few moments of silence. “Loud, even for a lawyer, but very devoted. People always say Mama and I are more alike, but she claims I have his determination.”

“I can’t picture you as a lawyer. Or outlandish,” Yuri says. Aktos has jumped into the frame, hopping on Otabek’s lap and trying to lick the computer.

“I prefer to walk away without camera’s flashing, so that’s another difference between us” Otabek responds, drily, before moving on, unaware of how little he’s offered in preparation and Yuri too full of bluster to inquire more.

The thing about the network of people in Yuri’s life is that precious few know how to reassure him when it comes to Otabek and meeting his parents. There’s Grandpa, who sincerely claims he is a fine young man to bring home, confident he’ll do the family proud.

And….

And that’s fucking it.

Lilia and Yakov aren’t wired for this type of reassurance, and, more importantly, Yuri’s not mentioning relationships in fear they start screaming about their own. He’d rather become a professional dog walker that submit to that torture. In a similar vein, Yuri’s not stupid or suicidal enough to give Mila, Katsuki, or his inferior spouse the blackmail material and hears their mocking croons in his nightmares. Most of the skaters he grudgingly knows from international competition aren’t his friends or, worse, actively hope Otabek does better. Yuri doesn’t care what Otabek says, he knows Leo dislikes him.

On the plane ride to Almaty, Yuri frantically scrolls through the internet for advice and watches far too many sitcom clips to prepare him for the firing squad.

But nothing, not the horror stories of the internet nor Otabek’s photo albums, were warning enough for Aslan Altin or the rest of the family.

Aslan Altin has nearly half a foot of height on his son, but Otabek inherited his broad shoulders, the shape of his face and features except for the eyes, his mother’s, and nose, smaller and pointed in contrast. His hair is tempered with gray but is largely dark, cut short. One arm is thrown over Otabek’s shoulder and another waves in the air with a shout of, “Yuri! Over here!”

Otabek looks up to the heavens, obviously asking to be struck down.

* * *

It is clear that Aslan Altin enjoys Yuri immensely, from the ease in which he talks at him, about him, to how supportive he is about every decision they’ve made over the past year.

More importantly, Yuri’s so desperate to please him that he won’t hesitate to throw Otabek under any sort of vehicle and metaphorically parallel park on his twitching corpse.

This is Aslan’s favorite part.

“My son,” he says fondly when on the topic of Otabek pulling a Victor and Yuuri, “the dramatic.”

“Papa, stop.”

“You can call me Papa if you like,” he offers to Yuri quickly, like he’s been dying to throw the idea into the ether since before the conversation began.

“Papa, no.”

“Grab my phone and look at his baby pictures during the drive. I uploaded the best ones before you came.”

“Yuri, give me the phone,” Otabek orders from the backseat of the car, a spark of life in him as his father pulls out of the airport parking lot.

Yuri ignores him with extreme prejudice once a drooling three month old Otabek flashes across the screen, giddy with relief at how well the trip from Almaty has treated him.

Unfortunately, Yuri quickly realizes that however much an ally Otabek’s father may be, his beloved mother has, rightfully, decided Yuri isn’t good enough for her son. Raisa Altin is beautiful, slim, with her heart shaped face and sharp gaze that pins Yuri to the ground.

This is what he trained with Lilia for, Yuri thinks over dinner as she peers at him behind a styling pair of glasses. Later Yuri will complain to Mila that she and Lilia took the same seminar in terror.

"Has your suspension lifted yet?" She asks before Yuri can even take a bite to eat.

Lilia prepared him for nothing, he thinks, wrung out and exhausted when dinner ends and they’re free to flee to Otabek’s apartment, the icy gaze of his mother and mocking laugh of his sister haunting his every step.

He needs to reconsider which family members are most likely to like him in this trip and change tactics accordingly.

* * *

 

“Beka, your dog is crushing my kidney,” Yuri complains at midnight as Aktos spins around on the bed, seemingly unable to sleep and determined to share that fate with Yuri.

Otabek snores in response, dead to the world from an exhausting day with his family. Yuri can relate considering he lived through every experience on his best behavior and feeling like an outsider. Yet awake he remains.

Aktos snuffs at his side, nudging at Yuri with a stocky snout.

“I hate you, you giant ball of fur.”

Aktos starts licking him, and Yuri realizes he has lost the war.

Launching himself out of bed on unsteady limbs, Aktos clamors off and rushes towards the door. Yuri throws on a pair of shoes and grabs a hoodie off the coatrack to take Aktos outside to relieve himself.

Upon returning to the apartment with an overjoyed and still mildly energetic dog, Yuri realizes they accidentally left the television on, too distracted with finally being alone and grabbing at each other to shut it off, pressing mute instead. A Russian channel is concluding a report but the lack of sounds prevents him from paying much attention…

Until Victor appears on a commercial and Yuri launches himself onto the couch, much to Aktos’s joy. While the dog hunts down a toy to bat Yuri with until he plays, Yuri stares, enraptured, as Victor and a few other athletes Yuri recognizes from the Olympics model what may be the ugliest set of watches he’s ever seen.

Near the end of the commercial, an ugly timepiece that looks suspiciously like the one he was gifted by Victor on his last trip to Japan pops up.

Fuck Victor, Yuri thinks as he hold Aktos’s toy in one hand as the dog attempts to drag him off the couch in tug-of-war. He lets Otabek’s monster hound try to dislocate his shoulder for a few more minutes as he searches for the commercial on his phone.

Eventually, now sure the damn clock is the one Victor foisted on him in a supposed act of affection, Yuri searches for his laptop and sets himself up on the table near the kitchen, the white space heater of fur sitting on his feet and gnawing a bone.

If Victor wants to star in commercials, Yuri will help him. It is what a protege does when feeling grateful. After all, he cut his teeth watching Victor pay tribute to Yakov. Surely he would understand.

“Yuri, why are you photoshopping Victor into advertisements about male baldness?” Otabek’s voice croaks out from the bedroom’s doorway, hours later, rough from disuse at 3 AM.

“You’re the one who told me to control my temper by doing something relaxing,” Yuri replies, distracted as he edits a shine to Victor’s forehead.

The dog snores underneath the table.

Yuri contemplates buying additional computer software so he can manipulate videos and do voiceovers. This is soothing.

“Come back to bed Yuri.” Yuri refuses to look up from his computer. If he doesn’t see Otabek, he can’t be tempted by Otabek.

“Yura,” Otabek says, in the tonal equivalent of catnip for Yuri. “You can finish tormenting Victor in the morning.”

Moderately cajoled, Yuri makes the disastrous mistake of turning towards Otabek, wearing a pair of loose fitting drawstring pants and nothing else. The summer has been kind, tanning Otabek’s skin evenly, turning him both sunkissed and Yuri kissed, the faint outline of his mouth leaving tiny love note spots across his neck and upper chest. He looks good. He looks like he belongs to Yuri.

“What about Victor?” Yuri asks once he remembers how to talk.

Otabek walks back into the bedroom, amused by the sounds of Yuri hastily saving his work and shutting off the lights behind him.

Victor's reaction as he posts the false advertisements online is worth the shameful amount of money Yuri spent on programming. 

* * *

Four days before Yuri is to leave Almaty, the family throws a party, a pseudo reunion of collecting the odds and ends of their relatives into one gathering, at an aunt’s house at the edge of the city. A cousin named Flura with brightly dyed blue hair keeps handing him drinks. Against his, and Otabek’s, better instincts, he swallows his cup quickly, hoping to impress, and is doggedly followed until she fills his cup up again, and again, and again.

Baffled, Otabek will later ask, holding Yuri’s hair back as he throws up “You worried about meeting my family and thought letting Flura get you drunk was the solution?”

“Yes!” He bites out between the nausea.

To be fair, Flura was a one woman army for the local brewery, dragging as many people down with her, such as Yuri or her twin.

“One of us,” Aiganym, the twin, offers somberly as she watches Yuri. An uncle groans on a couch nearby, a victim in the war against healthy livers.

Eventually, a tiny child wanders over to Yuri, huddled against Otabek’s side in the early evening, looking for a story before bed. Yuri doesn’t know how they’re related, but she’s found him when he’s vulnerable so she’s definitely an Altin.

“Tell me how you met?” A blurry mess of a purple dress and pigtails requests.

“Dasha,” a woman cautions. The mother?

“Please tell me how you met?” The mess tries again.

The moon. Spain. A rock in the middle of the Pacific. Truthfully, Yuri’s too wasted to recall so his life is basically this little girl’s pick your own adventure book in human form. God if he isn’t trying to remember for the kid but it’s not happening. It’s not. He groans and hopes Otabek can translate for him.

A voice that does not belong to Otabek swoops into the conversation. “Like all good stories, it involves a daring rescue, a prince in disguise, and true love’s kiss,” Ylena says, primal instincts to traumatize her younger brother carrying her over to this side of the house and shaking her out of a drunken haze.

Otabek groans against Yuri now instead, tragically sober. Yuri sips his drink in sympathy.

In the morning, Raisa watches them as she sips her coffee before going to the university. Otabek receives a kiss on the cheek as she leaves and Yuri and Ylena her poorly disguised shame. It's not disgust though, so Yuri considers it a victory.

Two of three relatives liking him isn’t bad for a first trip, Yuri reflects as Ylena tips against his side, significantly less hungover but still incredibly dizzy.

Somewhere in Russia, Mila cackles on the ice.

* * *

“I need my own space,” Yuri announces over breakfast, placing his phone down so Lilia can see the new realtor’s website on his screen. “I’m an adult.”

Yakov looks at him, then at Lilia, and then back towards his own phone. He says nothing. It says everything.

“I’ll succeed now that my realtor isn’t a gross incompetent!” Yuri argues as Yakov looks back blankly.

He exhales.

(One day, Yakov’s memoirs will be a bestseller, not because it’s a partial guide to raising the next Victor Nikiforov but for the bullshit Lilia and Yuri put him through.)

“Quiet Yakov,” Lilia dismisses, arching an eyebrow as she reviews the listings. Yuri must prove him wrong.

“Acceptable,” she says, returning Yuri’s phone, tone firm.

“Not acceptable,” Lilia announces, opening the closets and frowning at their realtor. Yuri trusts her decision implicitly.

“Do you expect me to starve?” Yuri asks in the fourth apartment, slapping his palm against a granite countertop, back turned to the new appliances and generous fridge.

“It was just remodelled?” The realtor offers, her tone cautious and confused. Yuri thinks, with unexpected pity, that she won’t survive this career if she can’t find an apartment for someone with so few expectations and such low standards as him.

She tries to bring them to an apartment two floors below Mila’s, and Yuri openly wonders if a fall from the top of the building would kill him. Lilia hides the twist of her mouth behind her hand as the realtor frantically bars him from checking out the roof.

“Too small,” Lilia dismisses about a bedroom larger than Yuri’s current one. He nods in agreement and fails to understand why Yakov looks chagrined but unsurprised over dinner when they report their findings.

“Russia makes poor realtors,” Lilia concludes, sincere and critical, as the season changes and Yuri’s training picks up.

Yakov stares at them, stunned and pained.

“Stop smiling Yakov,” Lilia says, stirring her tea as Yuri’s cat twines around her legs in contentment.

* * *

**(Fall 2019)**

Leo de la Iglesias stares at him across the rink, a judgmental asshole.

Yuri shows his teeth in a parody of a smile. Leo frowns back.

Otabek prays to any listening higher power that Leo isn’t galvanized into sending him more emails about single, blonde athletes.

* * *

**(Next Chapter, Otabek POV)**

**(Winter 2018)**

“So this is what years of pining gets you,” Ylena’s voice is judgemental over the phone, and Otabek feels his lingering migraine picking up strength, throbbing in his temples. “I mean, kudos on landing a guy who’d go to jail for you but Beka, Papa’s the only one who found this charming. You know that, right?”

“I’ve been told,” he replies flatly, distracted by skimming emails from what feels like half the skaters he’s ever known, asking if the rumors of Yuri attacking a competitor were true. Most are deleted, though he notes one from JJ that seems more concerned with Otabek’s feelings rather than the drama of the attack.

Yuri may refuse to admit it, and Otabek reluctant to bring it up, but JJ Leroy is _good_.

“Mama…” Ylena pauses, choosing her words carefully, “appreciates Yuri’s willingness to defend your honor.”

“She’d just appreciate if he’d done so in a way that hadn’t dragged me in front of inquiry boards about violence, sexual harassment, and media management. I know.” In a world where Otabek hadn’t made out with Yuri and continues to do so, Otabek would agree even more heartily.

“How is your Yuri anyway? Locked in a dungeon under his coach’s rink or buried underneath a ballet studio?” Though Ylena’s voice is teasing, Otabek feels another wave of nausea come when he thinks of the International Skating Union’s decision to temporarily suspend Yuri from competition until the end of the Grand Prix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will focus predominently on Otabek over 2018-2020 so I wanted to refrain from discussing his parents/Yuri's meeting with them much because it shapes a lot of Otabek's motivations moving forward. Also it was the final scene I was writing and I just wanted this done. 
> 
> Thoughts on this chapter: The first scene was written in January, the rest within the past few days. I tried to highlight Yakov and Lilia’s concern about Yuri himself, not his skating, but wanted it apparent to us, not Yuri, who struggles with emotional intelligence. The conversation between Otabek and Yuri when they're not really talking was exhausting. 
> 
> Going forward, I'm hoping for the next chapter in mid November. I've refused to work on an ambitious one-shot for Voltron: Legendary Defender until I submitted a new chapter here and want to post that next. The next chapter will fill in a lot of the gaps of the past few chapters in Otabek's POV and bring us to 2020, where things go very poorly as these two idiots make every wrong decision possible. Many more scenes, such as Otabek's relationship with his family and his thoughts on Worlds will be discussed. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is still on this ride and for the support. I made a lot of promises over the months in terms of when this would come out, and I’m sorry I didn’t deliver, but I feel good about going forward now. As always, sending love.
> 
> [Feel free to scream with me over things](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Updated Timeline](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/post/154659055298/timeline-for-soldier-boy-minor-spoilers/)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been considering this story since ep 10. The world of Yuri on Ice is the world we wish to live in, where your dreams can be a profitable career and no one questions your sexuality or gender. But it contains the very human concerns of love, abandonment, and distances. Unlike Victor and Yuuri, who met as adults in the twilight of their careers, Otabek and Yuri have to grow and question how their homes and futures shape their identities. Originally this was going to be a short piece of a snapshot from each year (birthdays, competitions, etc.) but it continues to grow from the rough outline I've sketched out. Look, all I wanted to do was write a story where Otabek gives Yuri a framed list of ways to say 'Fuck Off JJ' in thirteen languages and avenges his honor at competitions while Yuri pines but this happened instead. 
> 
> As for the timeline of this story...your guess is as good as mine? 
> 
> Scream with me about Yuri on Ice or prompt me at tumblr: thissupposedcrime

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [#yourbaecouldnever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9322907) by [enchantedsleeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enchantedsleeper/pseuds/enchantedsleeper)




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